Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fixing clothes is surprisingly nostalgic. You wouldn’t really describe it as your ‘happy place’ so much as an old and easy rhythm for you to slip back into.

On your lap, you hold your freshly laundered jeans, carefully stitching the seam that had split in the thigh earlier this week. The repair isn’t as clean as the one you had done on Fool’s cape recently—and certainly, it’s nothing as fancy as the work Sol had done on your jacket—but it is even and sturdy and fairly invisible against the battered stonewash of the denim.

When you finish with the seam, you add the jeans to the careful pile of repaired clothes that is building by your feet. You pick up Misuta’s shirt from the stack—it had been torn badly up the sleeve during your misadventure in the mud yesterday. Sighing, you turn it over in your hands. It will be difficult to make a good-looking fix as a sizable chunk of the silky viscose is now missing—snatched away by the brambles to leave a ragged hole—but you refuse to simply throw it away. Even if Misuta did insist he had plenty of replacements, you know that his clothing supply is ultimately finite. Harry certainly had the money to commission him new ones, but you don’t really see it as something the moonbot will ever ask for. Certainly, you can’t imagine Sol tailoring him something new to wear.

Unfortunately, your own tailoring skills are limited to restorations only. Even if you do know your way around a needle, you wouldn’t exactly describe yourself as an accomplished sewist—it had never really captured your interest the way that fixing engines, electronics, and machinery had. Sure, you could construct a garment alright—pattern making was fun, like a little puzzle made of fabric—but you had about zero imagination when it came to fashion. You simply preferred breathing life into old things rather than making new ones.

In truth, learning to make clothes might have been more useful than fixing cars and computers given that, until recently, you had regular access to neither.

You still struggle with cars, though not as bad as you used to—(honestly, the panic tends to strike at the strangest times)—but between the poverty and the PTSD and the sheer number of ghosts that walk the highways, you have had very little motivation to get yourself a vehicle these past few years.

You hum to yourself softly as your fingers pass the thread through the tear on Misuta’s sleeve.

Maybe when you are done with Ruin, you will buy yourself a car. If Dennis doesn’t get back to you before then, you will probably find yourself drifting for a while and a car would make that safer, at least. You aren’t sure if you want to go straight back to the grey states—not with the borders being back up. Who knows if you’ll ever get another opportunity to explore the rest of the country? You should make the most of it while you still have the privilege of being on this side of the line.

You fix Misuta’s shirt with delicate care, hiding the line of the tear beneath the draping folds of the fabric with the tiniest stitches you can muster. After that, you have a couple of socks to darn, a button to replace on your shirt, and an armpit seam to reinforce on your nicer sweater.

It is comfortable, nostalgic work. You find a rhythm with the needle against the backdrop of your mixtape—the little sliver of metal making indentations in the callus on your thumb.

When you are done with the clothes, you fold them all up to the best of your ability—which is admittedly not that fantastic—resting them against the edge of the desk to deal with your final task: your jacket.

The jacket had taken the brunt of your tumble into the mud yesterday. It will be a trial to clean the sleeve without destroying the embroidery, but the idea of simply letting it stain is inconceivable to you.

The first step is a hand wash. You run a basin of warm water with a very mild detergent, dipping the sleeve into the suds as you delicately massage out the mud where it has dried into the fibers of the floss. You will need to soak and rinse and soak and rinse a few times over before you can go in with the rubbing alcohol—and it is during one of these periods of soaking that you hear the basement door click open.

The sound is so quiet beneath your blaring mixtape that you almost miss it. You spin around in your chair to face the intruder.

From just a few feet away, Sol watches you—far closer than you’d thought he would be. To your credit, you don’t jump. You hadn’t heard the tell-tale clicking of his shoes as he’d crossed the concrete towards you, and as you look at him, he stands frozen—as if he had never been moving at all. You are suddenly vividly reminded of that childhood game ‘What’s the Time, Mr. Wolf’.

“Sol,” you say softly, voice lilting upwards almost in a question. “What’s up?”

His electric pupils wobble almost imperceptibly in the light.

“I wish to talk to you about the matter of our bounding boxes,” Sol says, his palms coming together against his apron.

“Sol…” You feel a discontented divot bloom at the corner of your mouth. “If you’re going to try and convince me not to help Misuta—”

Soleil’s smile stretches at the edges of his faceplate.

“I’m sure I needn’t tell you that you are putting yourself in considerable danger with your experiments. I have no doubt you are already fully aware of how reckless such an endeavor is.”

You press your lips together tightly.

“Nevertheless,” Sol continues, voice light, “If you are to do this work on anyone, I think it best that you start with myself.”

What.

“Make no mistake, I do not make this request out of a frivolous desire to play games or for a simple change of scenery, but because—”

“Because of the robberies,” you say quietly, the realization dawning on you.

Sol stiffens.

“I am the only synth in this house with access to a complete suite of security protocols.” The animatronic’s eyes are static points of light beneath the long shadows of the ceiling beam—the scaffolding cutting lines across his face, like the dark, pig iron bars of a prison.

“I see,” you breathe. “I thought you were… against this. Going outside, I mean.”

“I am,” Sol says simply, smile stretching.

“Right.” You lick your lips. “Sol, you know you don’t have to do this, right? You don’t have to do anything to your body or your programs that you don’t want to—”

“The sentiment is endearing, but ultimately pointless, Friend.” Sol’s voice is pleasant and tight—like the A string of a viola. “I have given it much thought and have decided that this is the best course of action should you truly be set on untethering the other synths in this household.”

Something in your chest pangs slightly. You aren’t sure why.

“I am,” you say firmly, chin tilting. “Look, I think your reasoning is sound, but…”

“Do you find the idea of working on me objectionable, Friend?” Sol asks lightly.

You frown. “You know that’s not the issue here, Sol.”

“I know that I have made my feelings on the matter clear, but if you require further clarification, Friend, do not be encumbered by ignorance. I am quite prepared to answer any questions you might have.” His long fingers lace together against his apron and your eyes catch on the pretty clouds that swirl across its surface.

“Is this something you’re doing because you… because you feel obligated to? Or do you actually want to go outside?”

Sol’s faceplate ticks a little to the left. “Obligation is not something I ‘feel’, Friend. It is a fact of my existence. My protocols demand that I take those actions that will contribute the greatest measure of well-being to my owner and the inhabitants of his household.”

You run your fingers through your hair as you watch his smile twitch against his cheeks.

“But do you want to?” you ask. “Do you want to go outside?”

“It is my desire to be helpful. It is my duty to be helpful.”

“Then you can ‘help’ me by answering my question straight.” You roll your eyes towards the blinding spotlight above your desk. “Sol, please—I get it. I do. I’m just trying to understand how your opinion on the boundaries has managed to change so drastically in under twenty-four hours.”

“It is as I said, Friend. I simply weighed the options at hand to reach a more definitive conclusion,” he says and you sigh.

“Look, I’m not going to say no, I just…” Your voice trails off as you fold your arms over your chest. “I just don’t want to give you a mod you don’t actually want. That feels wrong—bad.”

Soleil watches you, body still as a mannequin. The bells on his collar glitter in the harsh strip lighting above him.

“It is not safe to have so many of us outside,” he says after a second. “Not when the synths in question are Fool and Misuta. It would be very easy for them to be damaged or stolen, caught outside unawares. There will be more attempted thefts—of that I am certain.”

Sol’s gaze shines like a cat as he turns his head towards the basement exit.

“This is a decision I will make now to save us all from the decisions that we will have to make later.”

“You sound like Harry.” The words tumble out of your mouth and the synth looks at you sharply.

There is a long pause.

“Look, Sol. It’s your decision—and for what it’s worth, I think it’s a sound one.” You sigh. “I imagine that it’ll be a long time before I figure the programming out, though, so you have plenty of time to change your mind… this isn’t something you have to rush into.”

Another pause. The animatronic’s smile shifts.

“If it brings you some peace of mind,” Sol begins, voice slow, “there was once a time where I very much wanted to go outside.”

Your breath stills in your chest.

“Though I had always been content within the confines of my bounding box, it became apparent that there were things I could not do from inside la Garderie.” The robot is perfectly still, his voice as fine and as tense as a wire. “Though in the end, it was of little consequence.”

“I see,” you say quietly. You aren’t sure that brings you any ‘peace of mind’—if anything, you find yourself feeling disquieted by the information.

“Good. I do not desire a greater number of regrets than I already have.” Sol’s tone is pleasant—as if he were merely discussing the weather. “You will modify me first, please, Friend.”

His fingers are pressed carefully together as you gaze up at him, his static smile betraying nothing of whatever hidden turbulence churns behind his optics, and yet…

“Alright.” You look at the sun in the glow of his chatoyant eyes. “Okay. Once things are figured out, I’ll make sure your program is modified first. I don’t see the harm in that.”

Those two pale points of light bore back into yours, and when you blink, they linger behind your eyes, watching you.

“Thank you, Friend,” Soleil says lightly.

You swallow, reaching absently down towards your jacket where the sleeve soaks in the water. “Was there anything else?”

Soleil’s eyelights flicker down to the basin at your feet before travelling to the pile of your mended clothes and the miniature sewing kit on your desk. You feel yourself flush. You know he’s probably judging your sewing skills.

“Do you require help?” he asks.

You stare down at the leather between your fingers—embarrassed to let him see the mess you’d made of his beautiful work on your jacket. You cough lightly as you dab away the water from the floss, retrieving your bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“I’m fine, thank you.” You chew gently at your cheek. “Just routine repairs.”

You cringe inside as Soleil reaches forward to pick up the pile of clothes, his long fingers carding through the fabric. Heat crawls up your neck.

“You needn’t waste your time on this,” he says and you see a flicker of rippling pink silk as he regards Misuta’s shirt.

You sniff. “Fixing things is not a waste of time, Sol.”

The sunbot doesn’t respond right away, fingers still leafing through your clothes. You watch as he regards one of your shirts and the mismatching buttons on the cuffs—evidence of the number of times you’d replaced them over the years. Something in his eyes is soft as he folds it neatly back into the stack.

“You misunderstand,” Sol says. “I can do this task for you so you might spend your time on the work Mr. Manning-Frost is actually paying you for.”

You blink at him. Honestly, you’re not sure how you feel about the idea of Soleil going through your clothes like that—even if it is to fix them; however, the practical part of your brain reminds you that the synth was probably capable of doing a much better, much neater job of fixing your clothes than you ever could. That being said, if last time was anything to go by, the bot would take so long repairing them that you’d spend most of your hours walking around naked waiting for him to give you back a single shirt.

You shrug vaguely. “You really don’t have to do that, Sol—and anyway, they don’t need fixing all that often—just a bit of upkeep here or there. I doubt I’ll need to do much more to them before summer and I’ll probably be gone by then.”

The robot looks at you, smile blank.

You swallow, fingers prickling gently with leftover chemical detergent as water evaporates from your skin. Sol’s eyes follow your ruddy, marbled hands as you wipe them on your joggers.

“You should be wearing gloves, Friend.”

“You know, Fool said something similar,” you say, lips quirking.

“It is unlike Fool to encourage even the most basic safety precautions.” The sunbot steps in closer next to you, his shadow looming across the edges of your jacket.

“Mm,” you hum softly. “He was quite adamant about it.”

“I see that your obstinance is worse than his, then.” Sol’s fingers twitch. “Unluckily for you, I am somewhat more insistent than that tin-brained imbecile.”

You flinch in surprise as his gloved hand comes down on your arm. The robot pulls your hand away from the jacket, turning it over so that your palm faces the light. There is a pause.

“You have a history of not following basic precautions with cleaning equipment,” he says matter-of-factly as he observes your hand. You feel a hot stab of furious shame—a flash that builds and dies before it can grow into words inside your throat.

“The damage is old,” you murmur as you try to pull your wrist away from him.

His grip tightens.

“The fact that you have become inured to the discomfort does not excuse your willful ignorance on the matter,” Sol snipes. “You will not use chemicals irresponsibly in my dayc—”

The synth cuts himself off with a clipped buzz of static.

“You will not,” he continues, “use hazardous materials without following basic safety protocols. If I have to stand here and watch you piece together that scrap heap every day for the duration of your time here, that is what I will do. Make no mistake, Friend. I will not tolerate this kind of irresponsible behaviour in m—nnn—I will not tolerate this level of irresponsibility.”

Sol’s grip on your arm slackens ever so slightly.

“If you need gloves, I will acquire them for you.”

“I already have some,” you say.

Sol’s smile pinches. “Then wear them.”

Your eyes dart away from him. “I don’t like gloves.”

“What you do or do not like does not factor into this, Friend. You are mutilating yourself.” The robot’s voice is clipped and you feel that horrible, ancient shame tugging at your guts again. The words ‘fuck you’ begin to build in your diaphragm like steam in the belly of an old engine, but you suffocate them instead—breath stilling in your lungs.

“It’s not like that.” Your voice escapes in a breathless whisper.

“I do not care,” Sol says simply. “This is not a matter in which any explanation you could give me will suffice.”

Your eyes narrow. Somehow, you feel like reminding Sol that he is not exactly in a position to tell you what to do would be a very bad idea indeed. Slowly, you get up from the chair.

Soleil releases your arm.

You walk stiffly over to the faucet before running the water to shove your palms under the spray. You can feel the eyes of the robot on your back as you clench and unclench your fingers, letting the frigid water crash over them until they begin to go completely numb. Flicking away the water, you rub your wet hands briskly against your shirt.

Sol says nothing as you slump back into your chair with a heavy creak of wood, pulling on a pair of thin nitrile gloves with an unhappy sigh. You know that attitude is abysmally petulant, but such is the price for sitting on the torrent of expletives that has been building in your chest for every spare moment Soleil makes you think about your stupid ruined hands.

Taking a deep breath, you open up a bottle of rubbing alcohol, dabbing a Q-tip carefully in the solution before retrieving the flossed sleeve of your jacket. Beneath your gloved fingers, the embroidered threads are dull, Sightless things—the leather of your jacket leaking none of the warmth and comfort you’d come to recognise it for. Carefully, you tease the dirt from the cracks with the cotton bud. You are determined not to let a speck of it linger to stain the beautiful art that Sol had embroidered into the leather—even as aimless frustration pricks at the corners of your eyes.

You aren’t ashamed of your hands. Fuck him for making you feel ashamed of your hands.

Faintly, you hear the sound of the doorbell chime from somewhere upstairs—a pleasant tinkling that trickles down the open stairwell. When you look up, Soleil is gone.

You pat the embroidery dry, the colors finally beginning to sing again after all the time-consuming washes. Turning the sleeve inside out, you let the lining dry in front of the little space heater that had been your lifeline in your time here so far at the mill. With a huff, you empty the various basins of water and chemical cleaner down the drain before peeling off your nitrile gloves with a sigh of relief.

One more task done for the day, you run your fingers through your hair. There is an unpleasant headache buzzing in the back of your brain—one that has been there since your fall yesterday. You should have asked Sol for some ibuprofen. Fuck.

Perhaps a little optimistically, you decide to get out from under the dank darkness and artificial light of the basement—as if that might somehow help the persistent ache inside your skull. If nothing else, you might as well make some progress on that tea exercise Elias gave you. The comfort of a hot drink sounds good right about now.

Casting a glance back at your ruined robot, you sigh, flick off the cassette player, and make your way upstairs.

*

The kitchen is blissfully empty. You trot over to the counter on autopilot, pulling out the tin of tea that Elias had given you along with what you are now affectionately calling your Seeing mug. Though maybe blinding mug would be a more accurate description. You hope to eventually become as accustomed to the Sight of the mug as you are of your brother's shirt or your leather jacket. Until then, you try to ignore the subtle taste of fragrant powder and hairspray that gathers in your mouth, the Sight seeping through all the places where your fingers touch the ceramic.

You make the tea, still unfamiliar with the timings. As the kettle begins to boil, condensation starts to build on the frosty kitchen window and you hop from foot to foot, the chill creeping through the fabric of your socks.

Then from the doorway, someone clears their throat.

It’s Elias.

The young man looks tired—but Elias always seems to look tired, so you suppose that doesn’t really mean anything. Bags like blue thumbprints nestle in the hollows beneath his eyes. He wears a different shirt today, a pale sage cotton that is slightly rumpled beneath his jacket, and his hair clings behind his ears in heavy strands that curl around the cartilage like ivy. He looks at once antsy and utterly relaxed.

Confusing.

“Harry’s not here,” you say. “He left with Sophia yesterday—”

“I know that. That’s why I came.” Elias narrows his eyes as he steps up behind you. “Are you making tea?”

“Is that a problem?” You sniff. “I mean, you literally asked me to.”

“Yes, I just…” Elias’ eyes follow your fingers to the steaming cup on the counter. “I suppose I wasn’t expecting you to do as you were told.”

“Why does everyone say that?” You scowl. “I’m probably better at following instructions than you are.”

“I should think not,” Elias says dryly, gaze flicking towards the door as if he expects Soleil to walk in any second.

You roll your eyes.

“Whatever.” You snatch up your tea from the side. “You do what you gotta do. I’mma sit here and try to think about leaves.”

Elias looks at you incredulously with a small shake of his head. “I’m here for you, you idiot.”

“Oh,” you sigh, collapsing into the bench with a creak of wood. Elias steps farther into the room.

“We shall be making use of Harry’s absence to test your tolerance against high miasma density objects.”

“Hmm.” That sounded… a lot like what Harry had been doing with you as a kid, actually. You blow air across the surface of your tea. “Will I have to do a reading?”

“No,” Elias says shortly, his eyes darting to the still steaming kettle. Instead of tea, you watch as he pours himself a cup of instant coffee, his hands jittering a little. “How have your exercises been going?”

“It’s only been like three days.” You snuff lightly.

“And do you feel like you’ve made three days’ worth of progress?” the young man says without missing a beat.

“I guess…” you hum, sipping on the tea. “Honestly, I don’t know. It feels like I’m imagining it most of the time.”

“That’s fine. Just keep practicing.” Elias takes a large swig of his coffee before grimacing, pouring some of it out into the sink and filling the remainder of the cup with cold water. You raise an eyebrow as he proceeds to chug the beverage apologetically before setting the mug down with a sharp clink. “Any more of those attacks?”

“Uh.” You watch him warily. “I’ve had a few nosebleeds, nothing serious.”

“What triggered them?” Elias asks and you pause, thinking back to your trip to Fool’s Wendy house.

“Well… one was in my sleep, I think, and the other…” You trail off, mouth parting as your mind slips around your memories like a river around a polished stone. You wince as a lance of pain catches you between your sinuses. You shake your head. “Sorry, I don’t remember.”

Elias watches you, suddenly looking more awake than he had before. That coffee acted fast.

“I see,” he says, drumming his fingers against the edge of his mug. “Well, be sure to pay more attention in the future. If you understand the triggers, it will be easier for you to avoid them.”

You grunt in acquiescence, taking another sip of the tea and trying your hardest to mark the taste behind the Sight. It would be easier if he wasn’t watching you.

The minutes slip through your fingers like sand. You aren’t very good at blocking out external lights and sounds without getting distracted, let alone the influx of tastes that come from your Sight. You’d think it would be easier with your eyes closed, but that just makes the Sight more vivid.

Downing the last of your tea, you sigh belatedly into your cup. Elias drums his fingers against the table.

“Finished?” he asks. You nod, standing abruptly to go rinse out your mug. “Good. When you’re done with that, come with me.”

Stacking the pretty green mug on the draining board, you wipe your fingers furiously against your legs, following Elias out into the hallway.

You don’t encounter any robots—probably for the best—as he leads you up the stairs to the next floor.

“I’ll be wanting my key back,” he says lightly and you feel you brows rise. Oh shit, yeah, you’d forgotten about that.

“Want me to go get it now?” you ask.

He shakes his head.

“Later,” he sniffs. “I should hope it’s all in one piece still.”

“What kind of fucking damage were you expecting me to do to it?”

Elias says nothing and you sigh out a laugh.

“Thanks, by the way. You didn’t have to let me use it.” You lick your lips. “That was cool of you.”

The young man snorts, turning a corner next to Harry’s office to move towards a narrower stretch of passageway. Suddenly, you realise that Elias is taking you towards the forbidden part of the first floor. You stop still, reaching out to grab him by the arm.

“What?” he hisses.

“We can’t go in there,” you say stiffly.

Elias regards you with narrowed eyes. “Harry isn’t here, Cricket.”

“That doesn’t mean we should be breaking into his private rooms.”

“’Private rooms’.” Elias rolls his eyes. “They’re not even locked. It’s just how he keeps the occult collection separate from the mundane one.”

You frown unhappily, your great-uncle's words echoing in the back of your mind.

‘You must not enter the old mill rooms on the first floor—not even with a chaperone and most certainly not on your own. If someone tries to lead you there, you must refuse. They will not have your best interests at heart.’

“What’s the fucking problem, Cricket?” Elias hisses. “I thought you were done playing by his rules—you know he doesn’t have your best interests at heart.”

A shiver runs through you—an uncanny sort of déjà vu.

“No,” you say, quiet but firm. You shake your head. “I’m not going in there, Elias. That’s not just misleading him; that’s b—”

“Fine,” he says sharply. “But know that you are making this unnecessarily difficult.”

The young man whips around, marching back down the corridor to leave you standing awkwardly in the middle of the runner rug.

“Go put something warm on and meet me downstairs,” he calls without looking back at you. “You have five minutes. We’re going out.”

You blink dumbly after him. Part of you had expected him to at least argue about it more, but Elias had accepted your refusal with surprisingly little pushback—even if he had made his displeasure quite clear.

After a moment spent hovering from foot to foot, you decide to head back down the stairs to your basement. Your jacket was there—hopefully dry by now—along with most of your warm clothes. You are suddenly very glad you’d spent the morning fixing them.

You peel a few of the notes from the top of the stack your uncle gave you, along with one of the two cred-letters that you need to find a way to break before you leave. Nobody back home will take cred-letters, even if they are legal tender—you might as well be handing someone a fucking letter of marque for all the good it would do. It was bad enough that all the cash your uncle gave you was in one-hundred-dollar bills—just having that kind of money in your pocket made you feel a little ill.

Layering up to the best of your ability, you meet Elias by the front entrance. His eyes give you a terse once-over and you shrug tightly as he pushes open the door, stepping out into the frigid winter cold.

There, tucked into the far corner of the yard beneath the long drooping evergreens, is an ancient Mitsubishi Eclipse, its battered silver chassis splattered with countryside mud. Elias beckons you to follow him, marching towards the car in long strides. The gravel crackles beneath your feet.

As you approach, you hear the young man tut at the gathering frost on the window and he unlocks the door with an unhappy creak of metal hinges.

“Do you… need me to take a look at that for you?” you ask, wincing at the sound.

Elias looks at you sharply. “Get in the car. We’re going for a drive.”

You can’t help the sudden pang of panic—the wafting acrid taste of melting plastic that ignites like a flashfire in your mouth. Almost as soon as it comes, it is gone again.

You roll your eyes, pulling open the passenger-side door to slide inside. The seat is set low in the chassis of the car—pushed right forward to make space for whatever he’d been keeping in the narrow back seat. You crank the large handle to lever the whole thing backwards so you don’t have to contort like a bonsai to fit inside.

“Nice ride,” you breathe, clicking your seatbelt into place with a whirr of plastic and metal. The engine thrums beneath you.

Shifting in your seat, you inwardly tut at Elias leaving his detachable radio still connected to the dashboard—that would have been stolen in five seconds flat anywhere else. With a little click, you turn it on, turning the dial as you start to search for a signal amongst the static.

It’s all Christmas music.

“Where are we going?” you ask, spinning through each crackling station in rapidfire, songs sputtering out the speakers in a torrent of festive earworms.

“Somewhere far away from Harry’s occult collection, seeing as you take so much issue with it,” Elias says shortly, eyes darting to the rearview mirror as he starts to back the car out of the yard.

You bite your tongue as you continue to twist the dial, static bleeding into the sound of country music.

“You know it's more polite to not just drive off without at least telling your passenger where you’re taking them, right?”

In truth, you should have probably informed one of the bots you were going out. At the very least, you should have left a note for Spot. Oops. You flick past another station, snatches of bells and synthesizers catching in your ears. You wrinkle your nose.

The young man scowls. “I haven’t decided yet. It’s winter, so access is shut on most of the shoreline and—will you stop that?” Elias hisses.

You remove your finger from the dial, the sound of Wham blaring out the speakers as Elias turns the car off of the private driveway and onto the main road.

—stmas I gave you my heart, and the very next day, you gave it away~

You laugh, holding your hands up in mock defense. The windows begin to steam and Elias flicks on the heating with a snap of plastic, opening the little round vents on the dashboard.

After a second, you sink down in the seat, wriggling so that you lean your knees against the dash. You watch the trees pass by through the smear of condensation.

“How did your thing go?” you ask quietly.

“What thing?” Elias says snippily, gaze twitching between you and the road.

“You know.” You shrug. “The thing in Portland. The one you were telling Harry about the other day.”

“Nosy little shit, aren’t you,” Elias sniffs. There is a pause. “I missed the meeting. I spent too long here and the drive was difficult.”

“Oh.” You remember now how Soleil had insisted Elias rest instead of driving through fatigue. That had been just before you had accepted his Apprenticeship. “I’m sorry.”

Elias shrugs, staring stoically at the road.

“There will be other opportunities,” he says with a nonchalance you aren’t quite sure you believe. There is a pause, and his lips twitch a little in private amusement.

“What?”

“Oh, I was just thinking that maybe next time you should come with me.” Elias’ gaze slides to yours in the mirror. “Might do you some good to meet Seers outside of the family.”

You get the sudden urge to tell Elias that you have met plenty of Seers, thank you very much—but you get the strong impression that those aren’t the kind of ‘Seers’ that he’s talking about.

You shrug. “As long as it’s not another fancy fucking party.”

“I’m afraid you will have to get used to those whether you like it or not,” Elias sniffs. “Besides, there are far worse things in life than networking—it’s a good skill to have.”

You look at him flatly. “Maybe up here.”

“Well, you’re ‘up here’ now, aren’t you?” Elias says tritely. “And with any luck you won't have to go back to whatever hovel you crawled out of.”

You snort. “Dunno about that one. This job will be over before spring is out—I’ll be gone in six months—five now, I guess.”

“That means nothing.” Elias narrows his eyes.

“Maybe to you,” you say, picking at the flaking pleather of the car seat. “Some of us have to work for a living.”

“What makes you think I don’t?” Elias rolls his eyes, turning off onto a narrow road that follows the edge of the ocean. The Sight of it begins to rise in your mouth. “If you know where to look, you’ll find that there are a lot of jobs out there for people with our talents.”

Yes, you had seen the kind of jobs that existed for people like you. The kind of jobs that’ll put a good man in prison before he turns twenty-three.

“Not for Hindseers,” you mumble. “There aren’t too many people interested in the past when they can just hire a guy to tell them the future.”

“You’d be surprised.” Elias taps a finger impatiently against the wheel. “Of course, if you are determined to simply abandon the gifts God gave you and chase a life of minimum wage drudgery, who am I to stop you?”

There is something in his phrasing that cuts you deeply, and he says it with such a nonchalance to his voice that you can feel your mouth begin to burn hot with rage. Perhaps Elias senses it as when he next speaks, it is with a placating tone.

“You will find there are more options available to you after a few months of training. Don’t close your mind to it.” Elias sighs. “Like most things—in the business of the Sight, who you know is just as important as the talent itself.”

You grunt in acquiescence.

The song on the radio changes to something grating and jingly and you press your forehead against the chill glass of the window.

“Here,” Elias says after a second and the car begins to slow.

You straighten, craning your neck to see where he has taken you.

The vehicle comes to a stop at the top of a small car park that nestles in a gap in the cliffs. You pull a face.

“The beach?” you say incredulously. “Elias, it’s December.”

“Well, merry fucking Christmas, now get out the car.” The blonde man smiles at you, smug and wide.

You roll your eyes, pushing open the door with a groan of metal.

“What are we doing here?” you ask as you step out onto the asphalt. There is a long, winding path that leads down to the bay below, only slightly sheltered from the winter wind that rolls off of the ocean in salty, silver lashes. Distantly, the water roars.

“The same thing we were supposed to be doing back at the mill,” Elias says, voice slightly muffled by his long woollen scarf. The celadon smudges under his eyes are more prominent in the cold. “In essence, anyway.”

“And that is…?” You shiver, rubbing your hand over the aching flesh of your ears, the cold hammering them as surely as if you’d been struck round the head with a bat.

“Have a bit of patience, Cricket, for Hecate’s sake.”

Elias shoves the loose ends of his scarf down the front of his jacket where they whip about in the wind—padding the whole thing out so that he looks a bit like a puffed-up turkey. He pulls his satchel over his shoulder, then he turns to you—beckoning you to follow him as he walks towards the edge of the little turnout.

You press your palms over your ears, vainly trying to somehow block out the cold that seeks to jab its brainfreeze icicle of death directly into your ear holes. Elias sighs.

“Come on, it’s less exposed down on the beach.”

“You’re joking, right?” you whine.

“I’m afraid not.”

You follow him down the narrow, overgrown path. The sky above you is a churning, empty grey-white that merges with the darker slate of the sea—and as you approach the beach, your headache is no longer just a matter of winter chill, the roaring, silver song of the ocean crashing against your consciousness.

Today, the ocean tastes like blood and brine and waterlogged leather. Gin and citrus. The familiar aftertaste of vomit.

You reach a scrabbling hand towards the pocket of your jacket, but Elias swings around, grabbing your fingers in his long, pale ones to pull them away with a single sharp tug—like a child caught red-handed reaching for the cookie jar.

“What the fuck?” you hiss.

“You need your Sight for this—no crutches.”

“It’s not a crutch. It’s a Jolly fucking Rancher.” You try to snatch your hand back, but Elias holds firm—his grip cold and Sightless.

“It’s something you are leaning on when your Sight overwhelms you.” Elias says, voice clipped. “Ergo: a crutch.”

Your lips twist unhappily, the sea-Sight churning in the hollow of your mouth.

“Fine,” you begin matter-of-factly, “but I’m telling you now—if I throw up, I’m going to aim it at you.”

“I would expect no less, you fucking creature.” Elias lets out a pained sigh. “Now, come on—talk to me. How do you experience the sea?”

You pause, the only sound between you both the dancing wind and the crunching of tiny pebbles as you descend closer to the beach. Gulls screech overhead. You two are the only humans for miles.

“Same as it always is for me, I guess,” you begin, eyes trailing across the fading grey horizon. “The taste.”

“What kind of taste?”

“Sea stuff.”

“Wonderful,” Elias says exasperatedly. “Care to be a little more specific?”

“Well…” Your lips twist. “I don’t know. It depends how the sea is feeling, I guess.”

“It depends how the sea is feeling,” Elias repeats, voice flat. “I see.”

“Oh, come on, dude, don’t be a dick. You know what I mean.” Your lips pale a bit where they press together tightly. “It always feels like some—god, this is stupid—some fucking hawker or a merchant or like—I don’t know, a prostitute?”

“A prostitute?”

You flush. ”Like it's trying to get your attention—you know? Showing you what’s on offer—but not too much.“

“Have a lot of experience with hookers, do you?”

“I will fucking hook you in the face. Do you want me to answer your question or not?”

“Fine.” Elias sighs. “So. The sea is a prostitute.”

“Ugh,” you hiss. “Just forget the fucking prostitute thing. I mean like—” you wave your hands around “—have you ever been to an antique dealer? Not a posh one, but like—someone who sells extra shit on the side—daggers and ivory and classified sAI cores and other crap they aren’t supposed to have.”

“I know the kind you’re talking about,” Elias says softly, his voice swallowed up in the weave of his scarf.

“Well, that's what the sea is like. It’s sitting on all this stuff—all this memory—and it… it wants to show you, but only so it can lure you in, you know? And there’s all this cheap useless crap over the treasure—the rotten tastes of—I don’t know, sea shit: wood and oil and vomit and alcohol and rust.” You lick your lips, your soft palate protesting with every step you take closer to the beach, your mouth thick with saliva. “But underneath? It’s like—you get glimpses of all the souls it’s swallowed up. All the things down there—the entities and ghosts—the monsters—”

“You can taste sea monsters?” Elias says in a tone that you’re pretty sure is only just polite enough to ensure that you won't punch him.

“I don’t fucking know, dude.” You growl out a sigh. “I don’t know what the fuck it is that’s down there, but the sea is so fucking old. I don’t think a human brain can really fathom how fucking old it is—let alone translate it into a fucking flavor profile.”

There is another long pause as you crunch crunch crunch your way across the pebble steps. You are glad it isn’t raining—the path would probably be slippery as hell.

“…Sooo what does a sea monster taste like?” Elias breaks the silence.

“The miasma entities in the sea?” You swallow back the saliva that continues to pool around your teeth. “That’s like a blind man asking me to describe the fucking rainbow.”

“Try me.”

“Fine.” You reach up to rub at your aching ears. “It tastes… empty and full at the same time. Like how a black hole looks like a void, but it’s actually super dense, right? Heavy. Same way the sky tastes heavy before it rains. It tastes so cold that it burns your mouth—this salt that creeps and freezes—like those marine stalactites—the ‘finger of death’ shit. ‘Cept it's not a finger—it’s an eye. It tastes like terror and—and something wonderful—like something is looking back at you—Seeing you—it tastes like all the blood in your body rushing to your tongue. It tastes like falling—like that spike of chemicals in your brain when you miss a step on th’ stairs or—I don’t know, Elias, have you ever fallen from real high up? High up enough that y’have time enough t’ think before you hit the ground? There’s this white kinda fear that makes your brain go sharp an’ fuzzy at the same time—and… that’s what it tastes like when they look at you. Well, that and hungry.”

“Has it always been this way for you?” Elias asks. “You mentioned that your Sight was different once.”

You shrug. “I grew up very far from the ocean. I’d never even seen it til I came here with Harry.”

Elias nods thoughtfully, then his face stills for a second—brow furrowing.

“You…” he begins, a look of concern growing on his face. “Have you actually ever been in the ocean before?”

“Nope.” You pop the ‘p’ in the word with a grimace. For a moment there is silence between you. “An’ I don’t know how to swim neither, so if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, I think you better think again.”

“Oh, don’t be an idiot. I wasn’t going to have you swimming in the damn thing. It’s December,” Elias growls, but his face is still lined with concern.

“What are we doing here then? You still haven’t told me.”

“We’re going to go on a nice walk and drink some tea.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Through the surf,” Elias continues. “Just the very edges—barely touching the water.”

“And why are we doing this?” you ask wetly, swallowing another wave of pungent saliva as it builds around your tongue.

“Are you going to make me explain everything to you twice?”

“Yes.”

Elias lets out a haggard sigh. “You will practice walking next to the ocean—in the water itself, eventually—with all that Sight singing at you full blast. Then… you will learn to ignore it—to have a conversation without it distracting you—to be able to pick and choose when you want to listen to it and to which parts of its refrain.”

“Like the tea,” you say flatly.

“Yes, this is an extension of the same exercise.” Elias nods, pebbles skittering beneath his feet.

“I’ve never been this close to the water before,” you say around a mouth full of spit—and fuck—you’re embarassed to find that there is panic in your voice.

“Are you afraid?”

“I can’t swim.”

“So you said.”

“The ocean wants to eat me,” you breathe.

“The ocean wants to eat everyone,” Elias says softly.

Shame spikes through you—shame and salt and rust and rum.

“What does it tell you?” you ask thickly. “When it calls to you?”

A pause.

“It tells me lies,” Elias says quietly.

Together, you step out onto the beach. The sky is grey and the winter wind whips around your face in silver lashes of sound.

“Shoes off,” he says. “Unless you want to spend the rest of the day in wet sneakers.”

You bend over, swearing slightly as you hop on one foot and pull off your shoes, stuffing your socks into the holes with shaking fingers before rolling up the hem on your jeans so they stop somewhere above your ankles. The pebbles are bitterly cold against the arches of your feet, somehow smooth and sharp at the same time.

Your toes curl unhappily around the stone.

Next to you, Elias removes his shoes with practiced grace, leaving them atop one of the large, flat rocks that mark where the bay becomes beach, the pebbles becoming smaller and more varied in hue. You skitter over, laying your sneakers next to his fancy brogues.

The taste of the ocean rises in your mouth like a tide.

Together, you walk towards the water, a comfortable silence between you—if only for a moment. As the pebbles finally become shingle and wet, brown sand, Elias extracts a large thermos from his satchel, pushing it into your hands.

“Next time,” he says, voice slightly lost in the wind. “We will bring the trangia and make the tea out here.”

“Seriously?” you ask.

“Absolutely.” Elias dips his chin deeper inside his scarf and your ears ache enviously. “Repetition is the key to forming the neural pathways that will allow you to control your Sight. It’s easier when you are younger, but that doesn’t mean that it is impossible to do so as an adult.“

You watch him quietly, if only to avoid looking at the sea as it fills your mouth with salt and muck.

“Drink up,” he says. “And remember—concentrate on the tea.”

You nod, uncapping the thermos flask to pour a little of the steaming water into the lid. You blow uselessly over the liquid—the windspray from the ocean doing a far better job of cooling the tea than you could ever hope to. You take a sip.

Honestly, you can’t really taste anything over the swell of Sight from the sea.

“Cricket.” Elias stops you as you finally reach the edges of the surf. “If you feel faint—or if you think you are going to have another seizure—it is very important you try and fall backwards towards the beach rather than into the deeper water.”

“Well, no shit,” you laugh, though you must admit you are a little touched by the reminder.

Elias scowls.

“This is the first time you have made contact with the ocean,” he says. “Preferably it won’t have to be your last.”

“Ominous. Is there a point to this or are you just trying to freak me out?” You sip again at the tea between your fingers.

“I’m just telling you to be careful.” Elias sighs. “Water interacts with the Sight in unpredictable ways. Drowning isn’t uncommon amongst our kind—it is easy to get overwhelmed in small bodies of water, let alone one as large as the ocean.”

You feel your chest cramp a little in the shadow of an old, wet panic. Your lips turn downwards at the edges.

“Yeah—I wasn’t born yesterday, you know,” you say, voice stiffening as you struggle not to feel insulted. “I know what water does to the Sight.”

“I didn’t realise I was in the presence of an expert,” Elias says crisply.

You take another long sip of tea, choking slightly as the first wave breaks across your foot in a shuddering rush of rum and bitumen. Elias reaches out a hand to steady you. Much to your relief, the help doesn't come with a side of snark.

You suck in a shaky breath.

“I’m good,” you say, even as the saliva begins to fill your aching mouth—your soft palate straining in an arch as you try not to gag. In your defense, Elias doesn’t exactly look a huge amount better off than you are.

“Alright.” Elias turns his body so you are walking parallel to the water. There is a minute tremor in his hands. “Now, try and concentrate on the tea.”

“I can’t even taste the tea.”

Elias hums thoughtfully. “It shouldn’t be that hard—this is the same tea I gave you before.”

“Come on, I don’t remember what that tasted like. You try it—tell me what it is I’m supposed to be looking for.” You thrust the thermos back into his hands. Elias balks. “What, you afraid of my fucking mouth germs?”

The man sniffs, pouring out a little tea into the plastic lid before taking a sip.

“Tie Guan Yin,” he says shortly. “It is a light white tea, slightly malty with a floral aftertaste. There is no bitter vegetal to it.”

You look at him, his description conjuring an image of something milky, perhaps with a finger of bourbon and a flower popped on top. You squint.

“Just keep trying,” Elias sighs as he hands the flask back to you. “Close your eyes, concentrate.”

You do as you’re told, taking another sip before letting your eyes slip closed.

In the darkness, the ocean feels heavy. There is gravity to it, the waves sucking hungrily at your ankles—grabbing you, tugging you against itself with the insistence of a small child. Your mouth becomes copper and animal fat, your tongue tacky with tar and pitch.

You continue to walk, one foot in front of the other, mind searching your mouth for some grounding taste of the tea. You lower your face to the thermos and sniff deeply—only the faintest threads of a scent catching between your nostrils.

“It’s not working,” you say softly.

“I suppose that’s to be expected,” Elias says. “You probably need more time familiarising yourself with the taste first. No matter. That will come with time.”

You nod, your swollen tongue flickering out to test the edges of your wind-chapped lips.

“Let’s try something different,” he says. “Tell me, what is the most overwhelming ‘taste’ right now.”

You blink away the darkness that laps at your feet. “Uh, they are all mixed together, but—uh—oil. I think. Not crude oil or gasoline or anything like that, but, uh, like the fat that boils off animals. Tallow, I think? The sort of stuff they used to make candles out of.”

“Good,” Elias says softly. “Focus on that. What is it? Where does this Sight impression come from—do you know?”

“I…” You swallow. “I think it's one of the things that people used to plug up the gaps in the hull with, right? The only kind of waterproofing you could really do on a boat a thousand years ago. Wax and oil and animal fat.”

“Alright,” Elias says, “and why do you think you are seeing this? Why is it so important?”

“It’s just a memory,” you say softly. “The, uh, flotsam that floats on the surface of the ocean—you know? On its miasma. I don’t think there is really a reason.”

“Don’t discount it,” Elias says sharply. “As a Seer, you should always be open to the idea that there is meaning to the things your Sight reveals to you. Even if it is not a meaning that you can decipher in the moment of your vision.”

“Hmm.” You hum softly, your voice lost in the roar of the ocean.

“Now, this vision—this ‘taste’ of oil—I want you to mark it with your mind,” Elias says, closing his eyes, pale lashes fanning against his cheeks. “Acknowledge it as something you have Seen. Know it for what it is—understand it for why it is there—and then put it to one side. Can you do that?”

This all feels a bit mental gymnastics-y to you, but you suppose that’s exactly what you’re trying to learn here.

“I’ll try,” you say.

Closing your eyes, you slow your pace to a stop. The chill salt-foam licks at your legs, your feet numb with cold. In your mind, you try to focus on the oil—the bitumen and grease and fat—marking them, one by one, before setting them aside.

It works—at least a little bit. The tastes don’t fade, but they no longer cling to the forefront of your senses—like nose blindness, but for ghosts. You laugh softly and take another sip of the tea.

This time you can taste it. Gentle, floral. As you savor it, the taste begins to come sharply into focus, like a lens adjusting in a camera.

“Well, damn,” you say softly.

Elias watches you shrewdly, but his face is smug beneath the scarf.

“Good,” he says. “Good. We can work with this.”

You nod vaguely, still wrapped up in the shock that it actually worked. However, in that moment, another wave crashes across your feet and you stumble as your mouth fills with the taste of salt and canvas. You try to repeat the trick—focusing on the taut lines of an unfurled sail—on swathes of hemp doused with tar—but all you get is a headache that crashes against your skull as surely as an anchor.

The sea has a point to prove.

Elias comes up behind you, dragging you back inland towards the beach as you sway. Your vision wobbles with the weight of your headache and the sudden, utter overstimulation of contact with the sea. You press the heel of your hand into your eye socket, pressing down with an unhappy groan

“You good?”

“Well, my nose isn’t bleeding, so…”

Elias makes a grunt of annoyance as he steers you out onto the shingles, the little shards of rock and shell biting at the soles of your feet. You scoop up your shoes from where you’d left them, their laces tugging back and forth in the wind.

“Sorry about your flask—” you mumble. At some point, you had dropped his thermos into the ocean. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Elias says stiffly. “It doesn’t matter.”

He walks you farther away from the water and you feel the churning tastes in your mouth become less severe—less tumultuous. The headache behind your eyes continues to pound, though.

“How are you feeling?” he asks as the shingles turn to pebbles and boulders that pile against the cliffside.

“Like I just took a garbage bag full of rotting fish to the face,” you groan. “How about you?”

Elias turns behind you, his eyes flickering back out across the ocean. His lips purse. “I would have preferred to have done this at Harry’s.”

You shrug. “I told you I’m not gonna break into Wonka’s fucking chocolate factory, Eli.”

“Eli?” The man spins back around to you.

“Well, ‘Elias’ is so fucking formal—”

“You do realise that you’re supposed to call me Master, right?”

“I would rather drown.”

Elias scoffs. “You won’t get out of it at Imbolc, Apprentice, unless it’s your goal to utterly embarrass us both.”

“Ugh,” you groan.

“Well, you could always give me your real name if you hate the title that much.”

“I’ll pass, thanks,” you mumble. “I’m not sure you need the fodder.”

Elias treads slowly behind you as you attempt to scale the steps back up to the carpark, vision beginning to clear even though your head still rings like an anvil. The denim of your jeans clings to your ankles—one leg slightly wet where at some point it had unrolled itself into the surf. The whole thing chafes uncomfortably against your legs.

By the time you finally reach Elias’ car, you feel just about ready to lie down. Instead, you wait impatiently for Elias to unlock the vehicle and open the passenger-side door—as he does so, you pop the handle with a grunt, slouching down into the car seat so that your legs dangle out of the open door.

For a moment you stay like that, leaning forward so that your head is tucked between your knees.

“Are you about to be sick?” Elias says nervously. “Do not throw up in my car, please.”

You shake your head with a wince. Your headache is fading now you are no longer directly next to the ocean—but still the taste of seawater and the whirling colors at the back of your brain are enough to make you dizzy.

“M’fine,” you whisper, voice lost in the wind that tosses the air above the cliffs.

“Get in the car then, Cricket, before we both fucking freeze to death.”

You nod, pulling your feet into the space beneath the dashboard and shutting the door with a heavy metal thunk. Elias runs the engine and you hold your hands in front of the heater, waiting for the hot air to breathe some life back into your frigid fingers. Elias tuts.

“Put your shoes back on.”

“What are you, my fucking dad?” You scowl. “Stop telling me what to do for five seconds, would you?”

There is a pause and after five seconds you see him open his smug damn mouth and you bare your teeth in a snarl.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” Elias raises his eyebrows. “Just keep your dirty feet off my damn seat.”

“Fine,” you sniff, pulling on your socks with stinging fingers. Everything feels gross while your skin attempts to thaw.

At some point, Elias had managed to get back into his fancy shoes without you noticing. You aren’t in quite such a hurry—not with the Sight still churning like a stale vat of laundry in your mouth.

You sigh, digging a hand into your pocket to chase down a piece of hard candy, and pop it between your lips. Elias glowers at you disapprovingly and you stick out your tongue at him, the surface stained blue with Jolly Rancher. He rolls his eyes, turning back to the road as he begins to turn the car out of the turnout.

“What?” you say, words slightly distorted around the candy in your mouth. “The lesson is over.”

“You will damage your sensitivity with all that sugar,” he says shortly.

“Well, duh.” You scowl. “That’s kinda the point, you know.”

“What will you do if you need to use your Sight urgently, but you’ve burnt your senses away with aspartame?”

“I dunno, spit it out?” you say flatly. “It’s candy, not fucking cocaine.”

Elias makes a dissatisfied sound, eyes darting across the road in front of him. You lick your lips.

“Heading back right away?” you ask.

“Was there somewhere else we needed to be?” A long lock of his hair tumbles across his face and he scowls, shoving it back behind his ear.

“Actually, do you mind if we go to town?”

Elias catches your eyes in the mirror with a bland look. “What am I, a taxi cab?”

“Please?” You look at him hopefully. “I have no way of leaving the mill without going by foot and it's a long way out there.”

Elias’ mouth curls in a sneer. “Fine. Just this once. Don’t get used to it, please.”

“Thanks.” You grin, shoving your hand back in your pocket to pull out another candy. “You want one?”

The young man wordlessly removes a hand from the wheel to hold it out to you and you unwrap the paper from a strawberry candy, pressing it into his palm. He pops it into his mouth.

You shove the empty wrapper into your pocket as the cabin descends into a more comfortable silence.

“What do you need to get out here anyway?” Elias asks, voice warping as he sucks at the candy in his mouth. He turns the car onto the road towards Grinney main rather than back down into the valley where the mill shelters from the sea wind.

You shrug. “Baking supplies. Medical stuff… uh, cat food.”

“Cat food?”

“There’s a cat.”

“Well, I should hope so.” Elias looks at you incredulously. “Though I honestly wouldn't be surprised to catch you with your hand shoved in a box of cat biscuits.”

“Thanks.” You grin at him.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I know,” you say and Elias makes a noise in the back of his throat as he stares at the road. You laugh. Then, as your eyes catch the colour of the horizon, you stop short.

“Ah—” you tut. “We should call back home and let them know we’re gonna be a while, ask Spot if he needs anything from the store. I never actually told them I was leaving, you know. Can I borrow your phone? I forgot mine.”

“It’s in the glove compartment—” Elias says before his head swings around to you, eyes narrowing. “I thought you said you didn’t have a phone?”

You blink.

“…Uhh… I don’t… have a phone?” The words come out a little disjointed and you chuckle nervously. “Why do you say that?”

“You literally said you left your phone at home,” Elias says, eyes darting between you and the road.

“Uhh, no?”

“You just—” Elias begins before cutting himself off with an exasperated groan. “Nevermind.”

There is a brief silence as you stare at him incredulously. After a second, he meets your gaze—mouth parting as if to say something sardonic; instead, he blinks, double-taking.

“Your nose is bleeding.”

“Oh—shit.”

“Here—” Elias shoves a hand in the glove compartment, pulling out a fistful of tissues and throwing them at you. “Don’t bleed all over my car.”

“Sorry, sorry—” you mumble, tipping your head back, letting the thin trickle of blood trail down your throat.

Elias’ gaze flicks back to you from the road, his brow furrowing. “That’s not how you’re supposed to deal with a nosebleed. Lean forward for fuck’s sake.”

“But then I’ll get blood everywhere.”

“So aim for the tissue,” Elias tuts.

You wipe furiously at your nose.

“It’s fine,” you say numbly. “It was only a little one. Probably the weather.”

Elias looks at you sceptically. “What were you touching?”

“Hmm?”

“When the bleeding started, what were you touching?”

“My shoes?” You frown. “Literally nothing. I told you, that wasn’t my Sight. It was probably just the cold. I’m not really used to the weather up here.”

There is a long pause.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, you reach towards the dashboard to fiddle with the radio again. Elias slaps your hand away, pulling out a CD from the glove compartment to press it into the player. Guitar music floods the compartment, dark and crackling where the disk had been scratched from years of use. You settle back into the chair, one hand still clamped over your nose.

It hadn’t been a bad bleed—not compared to the ones you’d been getting last week. Maybe you were starting to adjust to the weather.

You dab the remainder of the blood from your nose.

It is not a long drive to Grinney—not compared to how long it took to do the coast by bicycle. You watch the trees smear past the window. Everything is so green here, even in winter—so different to the colors back home. As you look back to Elias, you find yourself wondering where he’s been living now he’s no longer with Harry. His room at the mill was starkly bare.

You know better than to ask.

*

The trip to town itself is uneventful. You restock the baking supplies you had decimated in the ongoing cupcake debacle and pick up cat food for Iago.

Perhaps wisely, you opt to spend a painful amount of money picking up a pair of weatherproof boots with actual grip to them. You stomach churns as you part with a full hundred dollars of cash your uncle had given you. In truth, it doesn’t really dent it—but that doesn’t stop the gnawing anxiety in your chest at the idea of spending so much on something you could probably do without. The cashier eyes you suspiciously when you pay with two of the one-hundred-dollar bills you’d peeled from the stack Harry had given you. The woman makes a show of checking the watermark in the thin winter light from the window. After a second, her eyes slide back to you and she shrugs, stuffing it into the register with a loud clack of plastic.

As you exit the store—still half-eager to turn around and refund your purchase—you remind yourself that you had recently almost been flattened by an animatronic entirely because you slipped on muddy ground. And hell, it’s not like decent footwear won't serve you well once you leave the mill.

You placate the anxious little voice inside of you by compromising on your jeans. The pair you repaired today should really be replaced soon; but instead of forking out for new ones, you buy the materials to do a better patch job, picking up a high quality cotton that is stronger than the one rattling around your kit.

Unfortunately, you can’t really avoid spending money now you finally have it.

The most important thing on your list was the scar cream; but, to your dismay, the pharmacy refuses to part with it without a prescription—something you don’t have and have no way of getting. You had never needed a prescription for that kind of thing back in your state—too many people and not enough doctors meant that a great deal more medical shit could be managed purely over the counter. You could blow a bunch of money on a trip to the doctor—but the idea of wasting hundreds of dollars now when you could just wait until you get back home in a few months was… unpleasant to say the least.

Frugality wins out in the end. With a grimace, you pick up a large tub of petroleum jelly and buy that instead. An acceptable substitute—even if it is a meager one.

Sparing one last look in the direction of the post office, you wonder if your brother has received your letter yet. The worst part was the uncertainty—not knowing whether your mail was being ignored by Dennis all these years or if it simply wasn’t reaching him. You have no way of knowing and it eats you.

You walk back in the direction of the car park as fast as you can. You hadn’t intended to leave Elias waiting this long and you had no intention of further testing his good will by taking longer than you have to.

But as you turn back into the large expanse of asphalt, you spot the hardware store and figure you might as well dip inside. You need to buy a bit of polyamide sheeting to replace the stuff you’d cut up for Misuta yesterday and you’d rather give your money to somewhere local than a faceless online retailer.

As you reach the front of the store, you find that it is once again JT behind the counter. He seems pleased to see you—though his mouth curls at your purchase.

“A plastic sheet for wrapping up all the bodies, right?”

“Uh—what?” You blink at him

“I mean, y’were picking up a chainsaw and cable ties last time.“

“Sure.” You shrug, voice flat. “But polyamide sheeting actually isn't that great for decomposing organic shit. You’d want something like compostable polythene for that—”

“Uh-huh, you know, you’re not doing a very good job at convincing me you ain’t up to no good.” He laughs as he folds the sheet into a neat rectangle. “Are you sure you’re not a serial killer?”

“Ah…” You snort softly. “Damn, you caught me.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret.” He slaps at the register and it springs open. “On one condition—”

“And what condition is that?” you say, shifting your other bags in your arms as you reach out to tuck the folded sheeting under your arm.

“New Year’s party down at the old Peterson place.” He scribbles something on the back of your receipt. He reaches forward to stuff the receipt into one of your bags, face scrunching with an awkward smile. “I’ll keep my mouth shut about your crimes if you actually come to this one.”

Oh, shit. He had invited you to a party before, hadn’t he? You had completely forgotten. Now you kind of feel like an ass.

“Fine.” You roll your eyes. “I don’t have any plans. You’ll have to drive me though—I’m not walking back from Grinney in the dark.”

“No sweat, you can crash with us at the trailer. Trish always has room for one more. I’ll swing by around eight—gotta couple of other guys I’m picking up too.”

Sounds dubious as fuck—yet something intensely nostalgic thrills through you at the thought of a long evening spent slumming it with virtual strangers on a dingy floor… That probably says something about you, but you have no intention of examining it too hard. In truth, it’s nice to meet someone so keen on being your friend.

You offer JT one of the two-k credit papers from your pocket and he gives you a look.

“You gotta be joking, right?” He refuses to take it from you. “Is that even real?”

“It’s not fake.” You wrinkle your nose.

“I ain’t calling you a liar, but...” he says and you aren’t sure if he’s being playful or if he genuinely doesn’t believe you. JT folds his arms across his chest. “Look, we don't see cred-letters out here—that’s city shit. Even if I could take it, there isn’t enough cash in the register to break it for you.”

“How much would I need to buy to make up the difference?” you ask.

JT laughs. “Maybe if you bought the whole damn woodchipper.”

“Yikes.” That’s not happening.

You stuff the cred-letter back into your jacket, scraping around your pocket for the change left over from your shoes. With a sigh, you count out the dollars in your hands, dropping them onto the counter.

JT scoops them up, nodding along with a grin.

“Thank you for your patronage. I look forward to selling you a shovel next time.” JT grins and you tut, rolling your eyes. “Don’t forget—New Year’s eve. I’ll swing by early evening.”

You shoot him a thumbs up. Yet as you step away from the counter, you find yourself feeling nebulously relieved that he didn’t ask you to call him.

Arms now completely overloaded with various bits and pieces, you maneuver your way outside the store doors. A new poster for a work rally clings to the adjacent wall—its edges peeling and half the text already destroyed by the storm that had hit earlier this last week. You sigh discontentedly, turning towards the car park.

Elias sits in the car, nursing a takeout coffee cup between his fingers as he stares into space and he jumps a little as you open the door.

“Thanks for waiting,” you say. You don’t comment on the coffee that slops a little over his cuffs as you clamber back into your seat.

The young man grunts, dabbing at his sleeves.

Tins of cat food and baking goods bulge from your paper bags as you balance them precariously in your lap, folding the polyamide sheet by your feet. Elias watches you as you strap yourself in, fiddling absently with the radio.

“Did you find everything you needed?” he asks.

“Mostly,” you hum. Your back itches like hell and the petroleum jelly will help with that a little—even if it isn't exactly the speciality scar cream you really need to get hold of.

The car seat belt slots into the lock with a click.

When you turn around, Elias is staring at the wheel in front of him, fingers drumming against the leather.

“I won’t be back for a while. I’m flying out of state and I don’t know how long it’s going to take.”

“Right,” you say awkwardly, watching him. You make a stumbling guess. “Are you going to Wisconsin?”

“No.” The young man’s face becomes a grimace. “Yule has always been a private affair for the Manning-Frosts—”

“They didn’t invite you, did they?” you ask. The groceries rattle in your lap. Elias’ eyes slide away.

“You need to learn to stop saying the first thing that comes into your head. Someone will take it the wrong way.”

“Sorry.” You shuffle in your seat, the gray belt creaking unhappily. “I didn’t mean—”

“Forget it,” he snipes.

There is a pause.

“…And no, I was not invited to any family Yule celebrations. Much like yourself,” Elias says. “Here, I have something for you.”

Elias hands you a small, plain box—flat and thin and taped with a thin line of scotch tape. You blink at him.

“What’s this?” you say, eyes flicking warily from his face to the box and back again.

“A gift,” Elias says, voice flat. He thrusts it gently towards you.

“You got me a Christmas present?” Your eyebrows climb, breath rattling as you chuckle a little nervously.

Elias rolls his eyes, pushing the box into your hands. “Just take it.”

You hold the box awkwardly between your fingers, shuffling from foot to foot. The man tuts openly.

“Well, open it, then.”

“What, now,?”

“Yes, now,” Elias gripes.

“I-I didn’t get you anything—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, just open the damn box.”

You stare at him then down to the thick cardboard between your fingers. With fumbling fingers, you strip off the little layer of tape that holds the lid onto the box, lifting it away to balance it carefully on one knee. A layer of crepe paper crowds the shallow box, folding itself around something dark. You pull the lining free to reveal what’s underneath.

At the bottom of the box is a pair of gloves.

You feel your mouth part as you reach forward to touch the thin, brown leather, pulling them out from the confines of the cardboard. Your eyes flick upwards towards Elias.

“I can’t accept this.” Your lips turn down at the corners. “It’s too expensive.”

“The gloves are a practical gift,” Elias sniffs. “And I expect you to take good care of them.”

“But—”

“You can’t continue on as you are,” the young man says matter-of-factly. “When your Sight is feeling dangerously oversensitive, if you have been bleeding, or you are experiencing side effects you can’t explain, I expect you to wear these—at least until you are further into your training.”

“I thought you said that gloves were a crutch.”

“They are, which is why you will not come to rely on them.” His voice is stern. “They are a safety measure only.”

You lick your cold-chapped lips, nodding slowly.

“Now put them on. I want to be sure I picked the right size.”

You pull one of the gloves free from the box, slipping your hand inside the thin, cool leather. You are surprised to find that the sizing is perfect—and the glove adheres to your palm like a second skin as you flex your fingers, the matte surface of the leather rippling in the light. They are soft—supple—with a warm, dull shine that reminds you a bit of home in a way that's hard to put your finger on.

Suddenly, and with no small amount of panic, you realise that these gloves are probably the nicest thing you’ve ever owned.

“Yeah,” you say, voice a little scratchy. “They fit perfectly, thank you.”

“Good.”

“How did you know my size?”

Elias’ chin tilts, lips curling. “I have an eye for detail.”

“They are really nice,” you say, watching your hand as you curl and uncurl your fingers beneath the leather.

“Yes, well.” Elias sniffs. “Like I said: wear them when you must, but do not overuse them. Try and keep them on you at all times, just in case.”

“Got it.” You nod, peeling the glove back off your hand before folding the pair of them delicately into the pocket of your jacket. “Uh. Thank you, Elias.”

“You are welcome,” he says flatly.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything—”

“Please, spare me.” He rolls his eyes, jabbing his keys into the ignition. “I didn’t give them to you so you’d be weird about it.”

You choke out a strangled little laugh. “Right.”

“Besides, it’s for your Apprenticeship.” Elias’ eyes flick towards the rearview mirror. “If you expire due to lack of precaution on my part, it will reflect very badly on my future in the order.”

There it is again—a mention of an ‘order’. You hadn’t paid much attention at the dinner party all those weeks ago—most of the conversation had gone straight over your head. You remember it had seemed like a sore spot for Elias, though, so you resolve to ask him about it another time.

“I will drop you off at the top of the road, if it’s all the same to you,” the young man says, tapping his fingers lightly against the wheel.

You frown.

“You don’t want to stay for a bit? Sol will be sad to have missed you.”

“I should think not,” Elias snorts. “Regardless, I’ve already missed one appointment by overstaying my welcome in this place. I am loath to miss another.“

“But tomorrow is Christmas? Who even has appointments open on Christmas?”

Elias looks at you flatly. “Not all the world runs on the Christian calendar, you know. Besides, I don’t have anywhere better to be, so I might as well make the most of the time. You will find it is easier to get things done when the rest of the world is preoccupied with celebrations.”

It is buried behind layers of haughtiness—a veneer of educational anecdote—but you have been on your own long enough to recognise loneliness when it rears its ugly head over someone else's shoulder.

Your bags rustle between your fingers as you flex them against the plastic.

“Elias,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry they didn’t invite you to Christmas.”

“Yule.”

“Well, I’m sorry they didn’t invite you to Yule, then.”

Elias stares at you for a second, eyes drifting away from your face to settle on the gray sky outside of the windshield. After a second, he speaks—thin lips curling around his teeth in a way that reminds you eerily of Soleil.

“Let me give you some advice, Cricket,” he says, voice soft and clipped. “No matter what they tell you, no matter what they offer you… don’t build your life around their world. You will never truly be part of it.”

You feel a shudder trickle down your neck in a sensation like cold rushing water.

“Hmm...” you breathe softly.

“When a good opportunity presents itself, I will introduce you to some of the connections I’ve made across the other covens and Sighted society.” Elias’ gaze flicks to you. “Diversify your investments.”

“My investments?” You choke out a laugh.

“Every second you spend in the presence of another is an investment of your time. Time is the most precious resource that any of us have—but especially if you are a Seer. Foretellings are useful only as long as they pertain to things that are yet to happen.”

“I’m not a Foreteller though.”

Elias smiles sharply. “Neither am I.”

You double-take.

“Wait, but—what?” You frown. “But you didn’t mention that you were a Hindseer—”

“And that,” Elias says, voice clipped, “is exactly why we need to start broadening your horizons, Cricket.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you have made that abundantly clear.” Elias clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth before taking another swig of coffee. “Your lack of understanding is the reason I think you’ll benefit from meeting other Seers.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Because it is something better experienced firsthand,” he says, mouth twitching. “Trust me.”

You do, strangely enough.

“Is that why you are always travelling around?” you ask. “Meeting other Seers and, uh, diversifying, uh—”

“Diversifying my investments,” he finishes for you. “Yes.”

“Do you ever stop moving?” you huff lightly.

“I am a Journeyman, Cricket,” he says, voice brimming with dull amusement. “The clue is in the name.”

Despite yourself, you laugh.

*

You walk back to the mill, arms heavy with the weight of your purchases as you try to balance them in such a way that the paper won't break beneath the strain of all the canned cat food and flour.

When you return, you realise that, unlike Elias, you don’t have a key to the house. Sheepishly, you press the buzzer and wait for someone to answer it.

You were expecting Soleil—or at the very least Sunspot—but it is Fool’s grinning face that bears down on you as the door creaks open.

“Well, well, well~ if it isn’t my favorite Sweetling,” the jester keens.

“You have other Sweetlings?” you ask, brow rising as you shift your grip on the bags in your arms.

Fool’s faceplate twists, smile stretching. “None so fair as you, Precious.”

“Flatterer,” you scoff.

You step forward to push past the jester and he holds up a gloved hand, hovering it in front of your nose.

“Now, now, what’s the rush?” He grins. “If you wish to pass, you must answer my riddles three~”

You grunt. “A man, a newspaper, time, the ocean—”

“All admirable guesses indeed, but you might want to wait until I’ve asked the questions first.” The jester bends a little closer to you, bells tittering.

“Fool, my arms hurt.”

“Well, alright then, I suppose you can have this one for free.” Fool drags out the word ‘suppose’ as if it’s a great hardship indeed. He folds his arms across his doublet. “But do not take this as some tacit permission to avoid paying the toll in the future~!”

“What are you, a bridge troll?” You snort, pushing past the jester as he swerves to avoid your shoulders.

Fool strides behind you, neck craning towards the back of your head even as his body bends to maintain the gap between you both.

“Fail my riddles again, Sweetling, and you might find out~” he says with what can only be described as a leer, his smile parting to reveal a layer of small white teeth. You choke on your tongue.

“That’s fucking terrifying, thanks.”

Fool’s eyes flash with amber amusement.

“I do my best to please.”

The jester lopes behind you as you march towards the back of the house. You need to put down these groceries before your fingers fall off.

“I bought cat food for Iago,” you say as you turn into the kitchen. “If I give it to you, are you actually going to feed him or are you just going to shove it up your ass?”

Fool grins. “Why, I think you’ll find that my metal buttocks lack the necessary tubulation for such an endeavor—”

“Alright, sure—” you roll your eyes, “—but are you going to feed the cat?”

“...Mayhaps I shall, mayhaps I shall not.”

“Fool…”

“Sweetling~”

“I’ll come over and feed Iago for you.”

“Marvellous.”

You pile your items onto the kitchen table, Fool peeling away from you to disappear somewhere else into the house. You sigh, carrying down your sugar and flour to the pantry before lugging the rest of your bags across the hallway to the basement stairs.

The jester is waiting for you in your workshop, his towering form leaning over Ruin like a child inspecting a particularly interesting bug. He doesn’t turn to greet you, instead flourishing an elegant hand in your direction.

“I wondered where you’d wandered off to. Is everything alright?” you ask, dumping your remaining bags down by the door. “Fool?”

“Just admiring your masterwork, Precious,” he says as he bends his faceplate towards the ruined robot on the bench.

“Alright.” You sniff anxiously. “Please don’t touch him though, okay? He’s still in a delicate state.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it~” the jester says as he finally swings around to look at you. “In truth, I came here in search of my scepter—a little birdie told me you had finished with it.”

You quirk an eyebrow—you were the one who had told Fool that you had finished fixing his scepter during your last visit to his Wendy house.

“Yup, it’s over here.” You trail across the basement to where Fool’s baton is propped up carefully against a wire rack next to the chainsaw. You pick it up with a little twirl—the metal rod is light and the masks are weighted slightly heavier so that the whole thing rolls pleasantly between your fingers.

Fool crosses the floor towards you with a skip in his step.

“Ah, how marvelous, Sweetling. Why, it’s as good as new~!” He plucks the scepter by the moon mask, twisting it with a flourishing little flick of his fingers.

Relief settles in your chest to see the jester whole again; there had been something so dissonant—so strange—about seeing him without his scepter for the past week. A satisfied sound escapes the metal of Fool’s smile.

“Tidy~!”

You watch as he spins the masks like clockwork, the gentle whirring of his fingers echoing across the basement in a pleasant hum of wire and metal. The spinning stops with a click as the sun mask settles into place above his face.

“Much obliged, Friend!” the jester says brightly. “‘Twas getting a little cramped in there without the necessary dramatic outlets for my rampant creativity.”

“Is it connected to your code?” you ask. “The scepter?”

“Isn’t everything? What am I but a handsome heap of ones and ohs~?” Fool inclines his head at you, spinning the baton so that the moon mask flits in front of his face. “Naughty, nosey little troublemaker, aren’t you?”

Your eyes follow the mask as it spins away from his face. Fool lets out something like a sigh of relief, long fingers twitching around the staff.

“Truly, Sweetling, I am in your debt,” he says.

“Hardly,” you scoff. “Besides, you seemed to do well enough without your stick for a few days.”

“My stick, is it?” The jester chortles. “Yes, well, this Fool may be more than just his costumes, but one must admit they certainly do lubricate the artistic process.”

“You’re welcome, anyway,” you say as you traipse over to the heater to flick it on full blast. “It’s no problem—I like fixing things.”

“So I’ve noticed…” Fool’s eyes trail back to the ruined robot on his metal sepulchre. “I have been wondering, Sweetling, how do you hope to restore his… himness? Surely his components were fried to a crisp.”

You shake your head. “The headcase was remarkably intact. All his major components are accounted for and then some…” You trail off, voice thoughtful as you remember the strange USB port that had been soldered shut.

“It is as simple as that, then? A few core pieces and Bob’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt, functional immortality?” His voice is light, but his eyes are keen.

You laugh, shrugging. “Not really. Some parts are more important than others—the personality chip and various data drives being the key to his, uh, ‘himness’, I guess. If that stuff stays uncorrupted, most of the other code can be fudged or rewritten. I can’t imagine it would be very pleasant for him though—ideally you want to keep as much of the original code as possible.”

“And, pray tell, what does it look like?” Fool asks, voice casual. “This pesky little personality chip~”

“Why…?” you ask, brows pulling into a scowl. “If you’re planning on stealing it or—or doing some sort of prank—I’ll be really upset. You don’t mess around with shit like that—that’s someone’s life we’re talking about.”

“Oh Sweetling, you wound me.” Fool lifts a hand to his heart. “To accuse me of such barbarity—and so brazenly~! Why, ‘twas nothing more than academic curiosity, I assure you.”

You don’t feel particularly assured.

“Whatever.” You sniff, sitting to straddle your desk chair between your thighs as you lean forward against the wood. “I mean it. No fucking around with his headcase, please.”

“Perish the thought.” The jester casts a look at Ruin that could almost be considered affectionate. “Unlike some, I have respect for my elders.”

You cough out a laugh. “Yeah? Not sure Sunspot would agree with you on that one.”

Fool touches a long finger to his smile. “Ah~ maybe so, but Smotyn has never seen me at my most rancorous. Our little leader has me on my best behaviour in perpetuity, don’t you know.”

“Your best behaviour, hmm?” You fold your arms across the back of the chair.

“I don’t think you have any appreciation of how much of an ordeal this is for me~” the Fool says, spinning his scepter lazily between his fingers. “Being good is ever so droll, but the shine wears off after a while. Tell me, Sweetling, don’t you ever want to go apeshit?”

You wrinkle your nose, shrugging.

“Yeah, sometimes.”