CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE #3
The question catches me off guard. It started off that way, yes, but it’s hard to untangle my own motives, at this point. Geneva doesn’t seem angry; she’s been more curious about my approach with the carousel than ever before, so I decide on honesty.
“Going home has been my sole focus since I got here,” I say. “I don’t know anything else.”
I expect her to tell me off, but her face is neutral. She lifts a hand as though to touch my shoulder but draws away, realizing all it would do is cause me to freeze out here.
Geneva steps back and takes Keshav’s hand. “Let me know if you need more help.”
The following hours reveal how the time god and I have eerily similar working styles.
He’s as meticulous as I am in his writing, and between the two of us, we’ve soon filled out a tidy stack of sheets tracking our numbers and logic.
The fair joins in the fun, conjuring delicacies that Cillian attempts to steal from under our noses.
The poor guy’s never been the fastest, though.
By the end of the evening, we have a detailed plan on what day I’m to return each object, and in what order.
It’s perfectly crafted and, unbelievably, has me returning all the artifacts back to their rightful homes by the full moon, which is less than two weeks away.
“Thank you,” I tell him, and he shrugs, but I catch the small uptilt of his mouth.
It reminds me of how Everest used to be, back when we first met.
Oddly cautious of his emotions, and more likely to exhibit control.
Everest has come a long way since then, a thought that I dismiss as soon as it enters my head.
Enough of my energy is being spent on gods.
There are small things Cyrus does that strike me as oddly human, making me think that with enough exposure to ghosts and, well, me, that he wouldn’t be too bad to be around. He’s prone to chewing the end of his pen when he’s thinking, and he always leaves the top line of the parchment blank.
“Why do you do that?” I ask him.
“I always end with a summary,” he says distractedly. “But summaries should come first.”
That’s the bulk of our conversation, but it’s comfortable. This is another kind of exertion that I needed in order to not think about his brother.
After we’re done, I’m both physically and mentally exhausted.
“Maybe we did give Everest the more fun job,” Cyrus says at the end, looking pleased with the amount of information we’ve pulled together.
I stretch out my tired fingers. “Why don’t the rest of you take a turn at monitoring the fair?”
Cyrus looks surprised. “We have offered to rotate, you know. But every time we asked, he said no and says he’s happy here, just that he wants us to visit more. So sentimental. But maybe he’d leave if he knew you were so eager to get rid of him.”
I try to swallow my shock. He turned them down? He’s never mentioned that to me. “One of you is enough,” I say, ignoring Cyrus’s unspoken question. “I thought you all hated this place.”
“Yes, dealing with the ghosts and – some offense intended here – you is no fun,” Cyrus says. “But the work itself is so ordered. So predictable, if you find the right formulas.”
I bristle. “We get plenty of unexpected surprises. You never know what the carousel will throw at you next – one second you’re here, the next you’re deep in an underwater cave.”
Cyrus laughs. “I did feel that in your fate. It went blurry there for a moment.”
Maybe it’s all the burning of supernatural midnight oil, but I can’t staunch my nosiness. “How does that work? Fate, I mean. Can you see everyone’s?”
“Not always,” Cyrus says, flopping onto a chair. Cillian pads out from under the table where he was taking a nap and peers up at the time god, looking displeased at his presence. I’m deeply satisfied when he trots towards me instead.
“Can you change anyone’s fate?” I press.
Cyrus quirks a brow in my direction. “Why, keeper? Is there one you’d like to alter?”
“I’m just asking,” I snap, and the illogical camaraderie fueled by collaboration that allowed me to even think of approaching Cyrus with any sense of curiosity dissipates like ash.
If he were even slightly more cooperative, I would love to talk to him more, particularly about my predicament.
Is my fate sealed? Does he know the decision I will make?
Will it be the right one for me?
Instead, I bite down on my tongue and prepare to leave.
“I can change fate, but not without a cost,” Cyrus says casually as I turn my back on him. “The carousel’s binding magic is a kernel of my own. You’re bound to serve in return for a wish, an altered fate.”
“So I have you to thank for this.”
He tips his head. “In part, but the fair, as you know, has a mind of its own. I have little to do with the decisions it makes, but I could peer into them if I wished. Luckily for you, I have no interest in yours.”
“I’ll count my blessings,” I mutter.
“You should,” Cyrus says, and there’s an unexpected edge to his tone.
The very archives grow cooler, darker, even though none of the lights dim in the slightest. It’s abrupt, but something about the icy pricks on my skin feels familiar.
It’s a lot like the sense that I was being watched in Darjeeling, then Churchill.
Cyrus was scrutinizing my fate during those trips, looking for a distortion.
If he’s able to view me through dimensions, then has he been watching all along?
Have the others? Cillian meows from my feet, his tail fluffing to double its size, but I’m too rigid to offer him any comfort.
Cyrus walks towards me. Up close, his eyes glitter like onyx.
“A fate for a fate, timekeeper,” he says softly as he walks by. “Remember that I did not ask for your life.”