It's New Year's Eve Somewhere [A New Year's Eve Short Story]

It's that time again — time for my annual New Year's Eve short story and the latest glimpse into the adventures of Carrie, Tamison, and their party. (Of course, as usual, this story should stand fine alone as well as in the context of the full series.) I hope you enjoy it and that you have a very happy New Year!

 

It's New Year's Eve Somewhere

This was supposed to be his night off.

 

The patrol alarm went off with an extended beep that echoed off the concrete and metal walls of the office. Tarvin grumbled to himself as he stood, stretched, and picked up the heavy metal stunlight from his desk. With one hand, he slid the weapon into its holster on his belt; with the other, he smacked the alarm to turn it off.

 

Still grumbling, he headed for the door into the ring of cells. He'd barely had time to sit down since his last patrol! Ordinarily, he'd only have to check on the prisoners once every few hours. Maybe once an hour if he were feeling especially motivated — Karoti would go every hour, but that man did everything by the book, and he was enthusiastic about it, madman that he was. As far as Tarvin and most of his squadmates were concerned, given that the cells' usual occupants were drunks or dust-heads and the occasional political demonstrator, a walk every two or three hours to make sure everyone was still breathing was more than sufficient. Most of the prisoners had enough problems of their own without guards breathing down their necks.

 

But tonight was different. Tonight required a patrol every thirty minutes, maybe forty-five if he had a good reason to stretch it, and an all-clear report at least once an hour. Tarvin didn't see the point; it wasn't as if the prisoners could go anywhere. Not as if they could escape without walking right past his desk. But the captain had laid out the consequences for him and his team if any of them failed to do things by the book tonight. If he were lucky, he'd spend a year cleaning orbital debris from Mahideri Station's path. If he wasn't lucky . . .

 

Tarvin unlocked the door with a finger pressed to the scanner. He carefully shut the door again behind him and waited until he heard the click as it relocked itself. Then, for variety's sake, he turned to the right. He'd mostly been walking counterclockwise, starting with the occupied cells and ending with the empty ones, but if he didn't switch things up occasionally, he'd go mad.

 

He swept through the curved hall of empty cells quickly, glancing into each. By all rights, the whole holding facility should be as empty as these were. The activists and demonstrators all tended to slow down their activities around this time of year; they knew it was an unlucky time, and any change was doomed to failure. Besides that, the university was between semesters, and that meant that everyone but essential personnel, two security units, and a few especially dedicated scholars and student-mages had left, fled either to their homes or to more hospitable locations. There weren't enough people here to make trouble, which meant anyone scheduled for guard duty here should've had that time off. Tarvin should've had tonight off. But then there'd been two arrests of the ordinary kind, and then another two that sent all the higher-ups into a frothing frenzy of panic and finger-pointing, and so here he was.

 

Tarvin reached the door at the end of the hall. He pressed his hand to the metal plate beside it and winced as tiny needles pricked the skin of his palm, taking the requisite DNA samples and confirming that he was allowed to access the high-security section of the facility. Before tonight, he'd never seen this door locked — what lay beyond had never been necessary, not as long as he'd worked here. But this night was an exception in multiple ways.

 

A moment later, the door slid open. Beyond, the temperature dropped by nearly ten degrees, maybe even fifteen. Tarvin shivered and set off again at a quick pace as the door shut and locked behind him, almost soundlessly. To either side of him, circular platforms filled with spirals of inscribed code-runes sat dark and empty, their magic inactive. On the ceiling above each platform was a similar circle of code-runes, also unlit and lifeless.

 

Midway along the hall, however, he reached two active platforms, their runes glowing the same blue as the stasis field projected above them. Here, the temperature seemed even colder. Magic drew in heat, Tarvin knew, though he couldn't remember where he'd learned that. Mostly you'd never notice it, the difference was so small, but with such powerful spellwork as this . . .

 

Frost glittered on the skin and clothes of the figures contained in the stasis fields, though they'd only been in there a few hours. The stasis effect would protect them from actually getting frostbite, but they'd still be cold as the back end of the galaxy when they were freed — if they were freed. Sure, this facility was only meant for short-term imprisonment — holding people a day or two, maybe four or five at most, until they'd paid off a light crime or could be transferred elsewhere for a longer sentence. But it wasn't like this section was used much, and Tarvin had heard of some prisoners kept in stasis for decades, covered in so many layers of frost that you couldn't even make out their features. The charges for these two were the same as for those prisoners: unauthorized magic use and espionage against the Coriolion Empire.

 

Tarvin paused long enough to study the pair. The stasis fields and frost obscured them, but he could still make out some details. The one on the right side of the hall was a woman, dark-skinned and curly-haired like Tarvin himself. She wore a strange green dress — more like a robe, really — and held her hands out as if reaching for someone, or perhaps readying a spell. Her eyes were open wide, and behind the frost, her face held mingled anger and . . . fear? No, not quite. Tarvin had seen plenty of people afraid for themselves. This woman's concern was turned entirely outwards.

 

Towards the other prisoner, maybe? Tarvin turned to study him next. He didn't look like much, just a man of average build, dressed in robes, with dark hair — messy, but in a way that suggested it had been neatly styled until some kind of scuffle forced it out of place. He'd had the sense to close his eyes, at least, and his head was slightly ducked. He held his arms up, forearms crossed, but his hands were open, the fingers spread. Tarvin had seen this casting position too, when a pair of student mages were debating defensive stances in a local bar. They'd said it was good for shields and not much else.

 

Neither one looked especially dangerous. If they'd been wearing anything but robes, Tarvin would've taken them for upper-level student-mages at the university. For a moment, he almost wished he could thaw one of them, or maybe both of them, out and ask what had happened and what they'd done. They were the reason he was here, walking patrols every half-hour, after all. Didn't he have a right to know why?

 

Looking at them, Tarvin had a nasty suspicion that they hadn't done anything. That they were from outside the empire and they'd had a teleportation spell go badly wrong. That would explain what he'd heard about them appearing unexpectedly in a restricted area. And he wouldn't put it past the higher-ups to claim malicious intent no matter what their prisoners said.

 

But even if he really wanted to talk to one of them, he couldn't. It took a mage and a guard together to release a stasis field, and not just any mage, but one of the Highstars, the highest-ranking mages on the station. No one else had the authority to use so much magic at once. There was only one Highstar here tonight, Meridus, and he'd been the one to activate the stasis field in the first place. He'd never release it for so small a reason as confirming potentially misplaced guilt, not when it was easier to just leave it until it became someone else's problem.

 

Nor would he have much patience for a lowly guard questioning his decisions. Tarvin turned away from the stasis-held prisoners and continued along his patrol. The rest of the platforms were empty, and the far door let him out in exchange for another DNA sample. Now that he was back among normal cells, the temperature rose again, and he no longer shivered. Still, he kept a brisk pace until he reached the sole occupied cell. He'd been told the two women within were political demonstrators who'd chosen a night in lockup over paying the usual fine. The palm-shaped bruises visible on the thin cheeks of one of the women more or less confirmed as much. Most of the security force wouldn't be gentle with someone who chose to make trouble with a sober mind and full control of their faculties. It was a lot easier to be patient with someone who you thought didn't know any better.

 

He paused by the cell and looked inside. The clear forcefield across the entrance let him see the prisoners clearly. The bruised woman sat closer to the entrance, her eyes shut, though Tarvin didn't think she was actually asleep. She'd swept her long hair into a high bun since the last time he actually looked into the cell; how it was staying in place, he couldn't tell. The other woman sat in a back corner, bending over . . . was that a notebook and pen? Tarvin cleared his throat and knocked against the wall between cells to get her attention. "Who gave you permission to have personal items in there?"

 

The woman glanced up for only the briefest moment. "I brought it in with me. Your captain didn't tell me to give it up."

 

Huh. That was unlike him. Still, Tarvin hadn't seen anyone come in, and he knew whoever brought them in would've searched them. The captain must've been feeling unusually merciful. "Well, fine, then. Just behave yourself with it."

 

The woman didn't respond; she just kept scribbling in the book. The other spoke up, her voice hoarse. "Do you think it's right that we're in here?"

 

"You broke the law, ma'am." Tarvin shrugged. "I don't know what else you expected."

 

"We made a few comments about the nature of truth and justice and freedom." The bruised woman opened her eyes and looked sideways at him. "We said magic should be free to all, not just to the elite, as it is in other worlds. Should that be against the law?"

 

Tarvin shifted uncomfortably. He'd learned long ago not to entertain that line of thought. "I'm just a guard, ma'am. It's not my job to decide what the law should be, just to uphold it."

 

He started to walk away, but her voice stopped him before he could get far. "Your name is Tarvin Aboti. You've worked as Mahideri Station security for seven years. Before that, you came from Asarvis. You were born after the Coriolion Empire took over, but your parents remember when the land and the magic were free, and they told you stories about those days when no one else was listening."

 

Tarvin turned on his heel, reaching for his stunlight. "What — Who are you? How do you know all that?" He'd never introduced himself to these two. And he'd never told anyone on the station about his parents' stories . . .

 

"My name is Willow. My friend is Laelia." The bruised woman met his eyes. "Would you believe me if I said that I'm from another world, that I come from the long past, and that I've visited the future?"

 

"That's —" Impossible. That would mean time travel, and even the Highstars couldn't do that. Or could they? Was this a setup?

 

"No one's listening, Mr. Aboti." Willow smiled at him, weary and determined. "You're the only one on duty here, and no one would bother with patrols if there were another way to watch the cells. So, what do you say? Is the way it is the way it should be? I don't think you think it is. If you help us, we can fix that."

 

He should leave. He should leave and report this. But instead, he stayed where he was, stunlight still firmly in his hand. "Help you how?"

 

Laelia's pen stilled, and she responded instead of Willow. "According to the history books, tonight, a guard releases five prisoners. When he does, he starts a chain of changes that ends with the fall of the Coriolion Empire, freedom for the people it's conquered, and access to magic for everyone."

 

"That guard could be your relief," Willow said, her voice soft. "Or it could be you. I think it's you. What do you think, Mr. Aboti?"

 

"I could release the two of you," Tarvin said, slowly. He shouldn't listen, he knew. But they knew too much for him to ignore them. At least if he kept talking, he could learn something. He was gathering intelligence; that was all. His captain couldn't fault him for that. "But if the two in high security are included in that group, I can't get them out. I'd need a mage for that."

 

"I am a mage." Willow put a hand against the force field. Rather than burning her, it dimmed where she touched it. A glow appeared around her other hand, dancing blue and green like the auroras on Asarvis. "Our friends, the other prisoners, are under stasis spells, aren't they? I can undo them safely if you just unlock what needs unlocked."

 

Was she using the energy from the forcefield to power separate magic? If she could do that — if she could undo the stasis fields — did she even need him to let her and her friend out? More importantly, if she were that skilled or that powerful, then she had to be at least on the same level as the Highstars. Under those circumstances, no one could blame him if he chose to help, could they? Still, a thought occurred to him. "You said five prisoners. There's only four here.

 

Willow's smile brightened, and she leaned closer to the force field. "The last prisoner isn't a person. We're going to release the magic. Make sure anyone on the station can use it, whatever authorizations they have, just like it used to be."

 

Like it used to be. Like the world his parents had known. Surely anyone who wanted to do that couldn't be so bad? "What do you get out of this? You said you're from another world. What do you care about here?"

 

"We want to do what's right." Willow shook her head. "We want to make things how they should be."

 

"And you have a copy of the Xenoth Archives here," Laelia added, her tone matter-of-fact. "It's under guard, but we might be able to get to it in all the confusion."

 

Willow gave Laelia an exasperated look. Laelia frowned. "It's the truth. That's why we came here in the first place. We were going to get here during the aftermath, but our timeport went wrong. Then Willow and I realized that was because we had to be here for there to be an aftermath."

 

That settled it. No one would make up such a ridiculous story as a lie, not if they seriously wanted to convince someone. They had to be telling the truth. All the same . . . "It's bad luck to start any big changes mid-year. You have to wait until the new year if you want anything to work."

 

Willow faced Tarvin again, her smile returning. "It's always the new year somewhere, Mr. Aboti. If not in this world, then another."

 

"Tonight's New Year's Eve on Earth and Fuila," Laelia added helpfully. "Worlds 1-3 and 1-5. It's also in the middle of the turning of the year for some cultures in Andauthea, world 3-7."

 

"See, Mr. Aboti? It's a new year." Willow looked hopefully at him. "So, will you help us?"

 

Tarvin took a deep breath and put his stunlight back in his pocket. "You'll release magic — will you teach me how to use it?"

 

"We'll show you the basics," Willow replied. "And we'll leave you information on where to go from there. Does that mean you'll help?"

 

"Well, your histories say someone does." Tarvin reached for his keys. "Do I let you out now, or later? Do your history books say?"

 

"Get the supplies you confiscated from us first. There's some tools we need in there." Willow stood. "Then let us out, as soon as possible."

 

"Right." Tarvin nodded. "I'll be back in a minute, then."

 

He hurried back down the hall, towards the main office and the lockers of prisoners' possessions. The thrill of what he was doing thrummed in his chest. If he were caught, it would mean death or worse.

 

But if he wasn't caught, it would mean he'd done something meaningful. Something important. Surely that was worth the risk. After all, it was the new year somewhere — and the new year meant it was time for a change.

 

A Reason to Be Here [A New Year's Eve Short Story]

'Tis time for my annual New Year's Eve short story, and y'all, I actually finished this one well BEFORE midnight. In fact, it's 3:30 when I'm scheduling this, though it won't go up until the evening. As usual, this story should work on its own, but it's also a continuation of what we've seen in my previous New Year's Eve stories. Enjoy!

A Reason to Be Here

Why had he ever agreed to this?

Tamison sat with his back to a crumbling plaster wall, watching the doorway and listening as the coughing from the room behind this one mixed with the furor of shouts and shots and occasional crackling spells from the streets outside. Had they gotten louder in the last half-hour? Or was it just the squeezing pain in his head that made him think so?

He glanced across the room at Laelia, the one person in their group who hadn’t ended up sick within hours of stepping into this world. “Are you sure this place is safe?” The words scratched in his throat like sandpaper, and he wished for a drink — but the plumbing up here didn’t seem to work, and if he went downstairs to find a working pump or facet, he wasn’t sure he’d have the energy to make it back, assuming that he didn’t get killed by an errant shot or spell while he was there. Better to conserve what he and Laelia had managed to bring up earlier — better to save as much of it as possible for Carrie and Willow, both of whom were too sick even to sit up.

Laelia took several moments to respond, but at last her pen — scratching in her notebook like it always did whenever they had a few minutes to spare — stilled. She nodded once. “I told you already, I’m almost certain it’s the one I read about. It looks just like the pictures.”

Almost certain was not the reassurance Tamison had looked for, but he suspected it was the best he was going to get. To think that their entire safety relied on one fragile memory! The same fragile memory that had gotten them stuck here, for that matter.

Though, then again, that wasn’t entirely fair. True, it had been Laelia’s suggestion to come to this world, Cotirus. She’d recalled that it had been one of the last worlds to end trade and travel relations with Darachan. And from that memory had come the thought that it might hold information on what had caused the destruction of Darachan’s capital — a question that could have been solved with simple time portals except that no one wanted to get caught up in the event itself — and what had become of Xenoth’s Archive, a record of magical experiments and discoveries by a particularly long-lived and inventive, but secretive, wizard that Carrie wanted for research purposes. She’d even been the one to work out when the best time to find that information might be.

So, all this had been Laelia’s idea. But Carrie had been the one who decided to jump worlds and times in one portal instead of making two separate jumps like Tamison had wanted. She’d insisted that adjusting for two sets of coordinates would be no more difficult than one would be. She’d argued that one complex portal would be more magic-efficient than two simple ones, and hadn’t Tamison and Willow been harassing her about overdoing it?

And now here they were: in Cotirus, as intended, but half a century earlier than intended, at what Laelia thought was the tail end of a revolution so dramatic that a whole world changed their calendars over it, declaring the day after it ended the first day of a new year and new era. To make matters worse, there seemed to be a minor plague running rampant, one that primarily seemed to affect wizards, which made Tamison suspect that it was less a real plague and more a biological attack by one side of the revolution or the other. It had been sheer luck that they’d managed to find shelter here, in a house Laelia identified as having stood long enough to make it into history books as a monument. She’d said something about someone important having almost died and miraculously survived here, but Tamison had been too miserable to listen closely.

The clamor outside was definitely getting louder, and that meant the fighting was getting closer. Tamison groaned and pulled his knees up so he could rest his extended arms on them with his fingers held ready for a shielding spell. Assuming he could summon enough magic to do more than a bit of fizzing lights, that was. This sickness seemed to affect his magical reserves worse than any other part of him, which explained why Carrie and Willow — who’d been managing most of their travel — were so much sicker than he was. How any other wizards in this world had enough magic to do anything as dramatic as what he could hear outside was beyond him. Maybe they’d figured out how to store power outside themselves like the Chanian inventors did.

He glanced over at Laelia again. She’d gone back to writing in her notebook, scribbling as if the world would end if she didn’t write down every detail of everything that she’d seen and encountered since she joined their group. Sheer misery provided enough motivation to force words up his throat, “Why are you here?”

Her pen stopped faster this time. “What do you mean?”

“Why did you come?” Tamison let his head sink onto his arms, trusting his ears to give him enough warning if he needed to shield anything. “You didn’t have to. Willow didn’t have to. You had good lives back when and where you were. Why’d you leave?”

Laelia looked back down at her notebook. “I want to discover things. I want to do or find something that’ll matter. Why are you here?”

Good question. Why was he here? Why had he even accepted the assignment that led him to meet Carrie in the first place? He should have asked for anything else. Tentacle beasts from the Lost Realm would’ve been less difficult to deal with than all these years of getting dragged into her adventures. Even bears would’ve been preferable. Bears didn’t have revolutions, and they didn’t timeport you so the tower you were standing inside of suddenly became rubble some fifty feet down. It wasn’t as if he’d done anything particularly useful all this time, just argued with Carrie in an attempt to hold back some of her madness.

But on the other hand . . . he knew why he was here, and there was a photo in his pocket that told him why. He sighed, then coughed several times before answering, “I thought it would matter. Now I just think I’m fated to be caught up in all the trouble Carrie gets into.”

Further conversation was forestalled by the sound of raised voices and running footsteps downstairs, with a few shots here and there. Tamison tensed and raised his head, trying to make out words. He wished he still had Myrd with him; the pocket dragon was stealthy enough to do excellent reconnaissance even when they were in a world that didn’t naturally have dragons. But Myrd had elected to leave the adventuring life after a particularly harrowing brush with a flock of Netherpests early in Tamison’s acquaintance with Carrie, and now he lived comfortably with Tamison’s sister, her husband, and their children. Lucky dragon.

So, Tamison strained his ears and wished he could see through walls as the footsteps moved up the stairs and into the hall outside. A moment later, a figure in a knee-length blue coat and red cap burst into the room. The gold trim on his coat suggested he had been someone important, perhaps still was, but the dirt, gunsmoke, and blood smattering his face and clothes told a far clearer story.

The man glanced back where he’d come, where more footsteps and angry shouts still sounded. Then he looked frantically from Tamison to Laelia. “Are either of you wizards?”

Laelia blinked and shook her head, gaping at the man as if she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Tamison kept his mouth shut, trying to think strategically through the pain squeezing his mind, wishing he knew how to tell friend from foe.

“Please —” The man took a step further inside. “I need to live. I’ve lost my weapon. If you can protect me, I’ll make it worth your while —”

The footsteps were getting closer. So were voices, most of them yelling about how the man should come out so they could kill him. Blast it! Tamison groaned. “Not sure I can help — I’m mostly drained.”

“Here.” The man was across the room before Tamison could warn him that he was sick. He thrust something into Tamison’s hand: a metal cylinder, like the flashlights that Darachan had occasionally imported from Earth, but with glass on both ends and what looked like dozens of tiny crystals behind the glass, all glowing faintly. “I took this from — from a friend of mine, after he died. He was a wizard; he said this held power. Can you use it?”

Could he? Tamison focused on the cylinder, feeling along its length. His fingers found a series of indents along the side, and as his fingertips settled into them, he felt the magic welling up within the device. Could he pull from it?

Lights sparkled above his hand as he discovered that he could. But there was no time to wonder how. Figures appeared in the doorway, guns in hand. One let out a shout as he spotted the stranger and aimed his weapon.

Tamison focused, flicking his fingers to summon a shield. It flashed over the door just in time to send the first bullets bouncing back at those who’d shot them. Then, with a practiced twist of his wrist, he multiplied the energy of the shield and sent it bursting down the hall and through the rest of the house. The attackers fell to the ground unmoving in its wake.

Tamison heaved a sigh and let his head drop back onto his arms. “They should be dead,” he mumbled. “The house is clear.” He extended the magic-holding device back towards the man. “Here.”

The floorboards creaked as the man stood. “Keep it. I can’t use it, and it’s fair payment for saving my life. Use it to try to get out of here, if you can.”

Could he? Tamison turned to blink up at the man. “What about you?”

“I still have work to do here.” It was the sort of line you’d hear from a hero in a play, but the man sounded like he meant what he’d said.  “Go. And thank you for your help.”

He headed back out the door before Tamison could protest. A few minutes after he’d gone, Laelia finally found her voice. “Do you know who that was?”

“No. How would I? We’re still in my future, even if it’s your past.” Technically speaking, Tamison was fairly certain he was long dead in his own world right now. Assuming he was going to survive long enough to make it back there.

“He’s going to end this revolution,” Laelia said. “In a month, this city gets renamed after him. Because you just saved his life.”

“Good for him.” At least something beneficial had come of this whole ordeal. Tamison looked again at the magic-holding device in his hand and then forced himself to his feet. “Come on.”

Laelia stood, tucking notebook and pen into an oversized jacket pocket. “What are you doing?”

“I may not be Carrie, but I can manage a portal. I’m taking us back to Darachan.” The words felt good in Tamison’s mouth, though they hurt coming up. “We’ll find somewhere there to recover, and then, if you and Carrie want, we can come back to this world — the right way.”

All the Years Before Her [A New Year's Eve Short Story]

 And here we are! Back with another New Year's Eve short story! This story should stand on its own, but for fullest appreciation, you may want to go back and reread my previous New Year's Eve stories.

All the Years Before Her

The sounds of upbeat music and laughter drifted over the hill from the main camp, through the slowly dying light, and came to rest in Laelia's ears as she knelt by an ancient, weather-worn pillar, cleaning dust from carven grooves with a brush. The words tangled in the trees, but Laelia could just make them out: Ring the old year out, ring the new year in, bring us all good luck, let the good guys win . . .

 

She recognized the tune quickly: an old song from Earth — she automatically recalled the designation, memorized and drilled over the last three years of her studies: world 1-3, erroneously known as the Magicless Realm until 5497 P.C. . . . She dismissed the memory with a shake of her head. Her friends always said she spent so much time studying that she didn't know how to be a person. Maybe they were right. There had to be some reason why she was out here, working her way through the last of the old year, instead of with the rest of the dig team, entertaining their sponsors and enjoying spiced cider and sweet wine and the best of Torio's cooking. Among the many delights and delicacies he'd prepared was one of her favorites, that one dish with the beans and the long noodles and the thin-sliced ham that she could eat bowls and bowls of. She should be back enjoying it and making small talk with the university representatives, telling them all about their work here at the dig and all the great discoveries they were making about the history of Dacharan. She should be celebrating the end of a successful year and welcoming in the new one with shouts of joy.

 

But instead she was here, staining the knees of her best slacks with the dirt of the ages, shivering in the chilly winds that blew straight through the thin fabric of her fluttery blouse, staring at grooves in old stone in the glare of spotlights pointed on her location. Once they'd been letters, she thought, but the forms were so worn and chipped and weathered that it was hard to make out what they'd said. Maybe if she kept working, she'd figure it out.

 

Or maybe she'd work and work and work and go to bed when she couldn't work any more, and she'd wake up and find that someone else had picked up where she left off and made a brilliant discovery that she couldn't claim any part of for fear of seeming selfish.

 

The music coming from the party grew in volume. "We're coming out into a brand new day and I just know it's gonna go my way . . ." Someone important must've decided to start dancing, and now everyone else was following suit. It really was a good thing she hadn't stayed. Talking was hard enough. Dancing was harder — especially when everyone swept off in a wave that she didn't notice until it was too late, especially when the music was loud and the lights flashed off every speck of shine anyone happened to wear and everyone was moving. She always ended up on the edges then, trying not to drown in the endless sea of excitement and sensation.

 

In that respect, really, it was for the best that she was out here. At least she was doing something productive, even if someone else probably would get the credit for it. Anyway, didn't some people say it was lucky to be working when the new year found you? They'd been people in other worlds, mostly, but luck was luck.

 

The letterforms cleaned to her satisfaction, she moved up the pillar. Here, the carvings formed pictures inset into the stone. Maybe they'd been filled with something else once, but whatever it was had been lost to time, leaving only outlines. Laelia allowed herself to imagine what the shapes might've looked like when they were new-made. Had they been filled with shining gold to proclaim wealth and power? Or perhaps they'd been filled with cut gems and glass, mosaics like her sister created and had used to win her fame.

 

Tamati would be holding her own party today, a gala in her newest exhibit. She'd sent pictures of it to Laelia: the white marble floors and the columns that separated each piece of artwork, the skylights that let in light to shine and sparkle off the precious materials making up the mosaics, the wide window-doors that opened onto a balcony with a perfect view of the sunset. Tonight, it would be filled with men in perfectly-tailored purple suits and women in silk and velvet and beads: artists and businesspeople rubbing shoulders and commenting on this piece or that or on the quality of the wine or the exquisiteness of the music — commissioned, Laelia knew, exclusively for that party and not to be released to the public until just before the next new year.

 

Laelia had received an invitation, of course. Tamati had been more than generous, as she was every year. There would've been a place in that room for her, Laelia knew; a dress and shoes and jewelry picked out and paid for by Tamati herself, platters of Laelia's favorite chocolate truffles and tiny pecan pastries among those circulated by waiters, and a few of Tamati's closest friends with instructions to make sure Laelia was always being included in something.

 

But the last four years, Laelia had attended and smiled and eaten delicacies that probably cost as much as a month's tuition in the shadow of all her sister had accomplished, and she'd managed polite replies to everyone who inquired if she were an artist like Tamati, what she was doing, when she'd succeed like her sister had. She never mentioned that she'd been the artist in the family before Tamati was, that Tamati had started out by watching Laelia — and then rapidly surpassed her. She didn't mention how she'd given up on art several months after Tamati sold her first piece. What was the point, when she'd only ever be a poor shadow of her sister?

 

Under Laelia's careful brush, enough dust had fallen away from the carvings to reveal their shapes. Here were robed human figures, hands outstretched to hold stars or flames. Here were great, curved waves of something threatening to overwhelm the people. Here was a great castle, and another star above its tallest tower.

 

There came a sudden stillness and a change in the air. Laelia's skin prickled. Then a sudden light flashed above her, and a wave of energy broke against her, stinging like hundreds of tiny sparks. Before she could even start thinking about identifying it, she heard a yell and a thud as something — no, someone — fell from midair onto the stone beside her.

 

Another shout came from above. "Carrie!" Laelia looked up. Another two people — one a man with messy dark hair, another a lady with a thin face and large eyes — drifted towards the ground, moving as slowly as if they had a parachute to hold them up. Both wore robes like Laelia had seen only in history books and museum exhibits and living history villages.

 

She looked down at the figure who'd fallen. Another lady, wearing similar robes in brilliant green under a darker-hued puffer coat like the ones popular on Earth. She lay still, but her chest rose and fell in regular motion.

 

The two in the air landed some feet away and dashed over to the lady on the ground — Carrie, it would seem. The man dropped to his knees, muttering under his breath, and fumbled for the lady's wrist.

 

Was he blind, then? "She's breathing," Laelia offered. "She's not dead."

 

Both looked to her in shock. Had they not noticed she was here? But before either could speak, the lady on the ground let out a groan and her eyes fluttered open. "Ow."

 

"I should think so," the man retorted. "What were you thinking, time-porting from thirty feet up like that? You could've killed us all!"

 

"I wouldn't've needed to if you hadn't gone poking things you should've left alone and waking up Cthulu's great-grandson." Even with the sharp edge of annoyance, the lady's accent reminded Laelia of molasses or caramel syrup. "What were you thinking?"

 

"I didn't know what was in the box —"

 

"It had Lost Realm runes on it! What did you think would be in there, a litter of puppies and a leprechaun's rainbow?" The lady propped herself up on her elbows with a wince. "I knew you were a fool, but didn't think you were an idiot, Tam."

 

"I would think you'd know by now that Lost Realm runes are also used frequently by people who want to leave messages that own't be easily read —"

 

How long would this go on? Laelia picked up her brushes and carefully started edging away.

 

The thin-faced lady sighed and edged with her. "They do go on," she murmured. "I apologize. I'm Willow, and that's Tamison and Carrie. We didn't mean to drop in on you."

 

"Where did you come from? You fell out of nothing." As soon as the words left her mouth, Laelia realized what she'd forgotten. "I'm Laelia Kynn." Their names sounded oddly familiar, though she couldn't place them. Family of one or more of the other members of the dig crew?

 

"Nice to meet you." Willow offered a friendly smile. "We came from here, you could say. Just a different here. It's a long story."

 

"A different here?" Laelia echoed. The site around the dig was blocked off for two miles in any direction; she knew everyone who had access. Unless they were party guests, she supposed . . .

 

Tamison and Carrie's voices had both steadily risen in volume over the last few exchanges. Finally, Tamison's voice reached a shout, "You always do this! You always jump to portals as your first resort, and you do it willy-nilly and we end up who knows where, except now it's who knows when too!"

 

"Well, we didn't change location much. Just altitude. I can tell you that. And we just met someone who knows when we are." Carrie, who'd managed to sit up properly by now, turned towards Laelia and Willow. "You do know when we are, don't you? What year?"

 

"Thirty-eight — ah, seven thousand eight thirty-eight. Almost thirty-nine." The words felt like they were coming out of someone else's mouth. Had she been the one to hit her head, and now she was hallucinating? "Who are you?"

 

"Travelers." The woman started to struggle to her feet. "We'll be leaving in a moment — ah!" She let out a small cry of pain and sank back to the ground as her leg gave out under her. "Or maybe not."

 

"Definitely not," Tamison snapped, still scowling. "You've made six timeports in four hours. If you don't take a break, you'll burn yourself out and we'll be stuck who-knows-where-or-when for the rest of our probably very short lives. Of course, if you'd show someone else how to do it, that would be a different story. I know you probably won't deign to grace me with that knowledge, but at least show Willow."

 

"If either of you had a chance of managing it, I would show you." Carrie shot back. "But I'd rather be stranded somewhere than lost in the Void and the Chaos because you mucked up something this complicated without a safety net."

 

Timeport. The word finally struck the right chord that made all the other discordant notes come into tune. She'd read about this — it had been a sidenote in one of her textbooks, History of Magical Theory and Practice. The sidenote had said such things, such teleportations or portals through time, usually only happened by accident while traveling between perpendiculars, but that it had been theorized that they could also be produced purposely. One wizard had been on the verge of discovering how to do it before she disappeared. What had the wizard's name been?

 

Tamison and Carrie were still quarrelling, while Willow was steadily looking more and more tired. Laelia finally found her voice again. "Are you from — from another time? Can you do magic? Do you know what this place is? Was?"

 

Both Carrie and Tamison stopped arguing and turned back to her. Carrie gave a sideways smile. "Of course we can." She flicked a hand and Laelia found her feet lifting off the ground. She rose six inches before Carrie set her down again.

 

Tamison gave Carrie another cross look. "I could've demonstrated. The rest of us are capable of some things, you know." To Laelia, he added, "You act like magic is something unusual. We're still in Darachan, aren't we?"

 

"Ye-es." Laelia drew out the word. "We haven't had real wizards for — for at least a thousand years. Something — something happened. At the old capital — here. Ages ago. We don't know what. It destroyed everything, though. And then Darachan sort of . . . it sort of wasn't for a long while. And now it is again, and I'm — we're trying to figure out what happened."

 

Willow perked back up. "You're a researcher?"

 

Laelia felt the heat rise to her cheeks, and she glanced down at the tools in her hand. "Not — not exactly. I'm — I'm just — I — I'm still a student. This is my first dig."

 

"We're all students, really, aren't we? So you're an archaeologist? We're nearly in the same field, then; I study interdimensional anthropology." Willow gave Laelia a warm smile. "This was the New Council Building; it was just being built in our time. Is the Tower of Luck still standing? It should've been just a mile or two east of here."

 

"We've found a stone circle that way, and a cracked foundation." If she focused on Willow, she could just about block out Carrie and Tamison, both of whom gave off an air of intimidating importance. "We think it was at the center of whatever happened to the city."

 

The three traded a look. "I can't say I'm surprised," Tamison said wearily. "If anyone were going to blow up the city, it would be them."

 

"They definitely don't do things halfway." Carrie already sounded much less cross. She sighed and shook her head. "We should go. We're trying to find something that was supposedly left here — a book, we think. Tam, Willow, help me up."

 

"I told you already, we can't go anywhere." Nonetheless, Tamison slid himself under Carrie's arm and hoisted her so she could stand on one foot and lean on him. "Not with you this tired, and not with your leg like . . . whatever it's like."

 

"Well, we can't exactly stay here either." Carrie shook her head, already starting to make motions in the air. A faint shimmer followed each gesture. "I'll be fine."

 

"Wait!" The word shot out of Laelia's mouth before she could think about what she was saying. She froze as three sets of eyes turned to her, but forged on without giving herself time to second-guess herself. "Stay — for a little while. Just a little. Please. Maybe you can help me — help us figure out what happened. We have a doctor, and we have some extra beds. Or — or if you have to — to go, take me with you."

 

Had she said that? Had she really said that? But even as she questioned herself, the possibilities sprang to mind. If this was real, if they really were traveling in time, then she could find out for certain what happened to the capital. She could solve the mystery. She could accomplish something that was, to some degree, hers.

 

Tamison frowned. "I don't know . . . Did I mention that Carrie tends to throw us pell-mell through time and space according to her whims?"

 

"Not according to whims," Carrie muttered. "It's not my fault I've had to rush so many to get us out of trouble you caused."

 

"I can risk it." Laelia clasped her hands in front of her. "Please?"

 

Tamison and Carrie traded a look. But Willow studied Laelia a moment and then smiled. "I think we could." She turned to the other two. "I have a good feeling about her. And if she knows where we can find a doctor, I think we should have someone look at Carrie's leg. No one else here has any medical training."

 

"Well . . ." Carrie pursed her lips. "One more shouldn't hurt." She nodded to Laelia. "Show us to the doctor you said is around. He can make sure I didn't break something when I fell. Assuming it's nothing too serious, we leave first thing in the morning."

 

"Just follow me — thank you." Laelia gathered her things and headed back towards the camp, beckoning for the three to follow. She glanced off to the west as she went. The sun was setting, turning the clouds brilliant orange and pink. The old year was passing — let it pass! All the years were before her now.

 

Old Years' Memories; New Years' Visions [A Short Story for the New Year]

 

A bit late, but I couldn't let the new year start without a New Year's Eve/New Year's Day story! Hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. As a note, I did finish writing this rather late, so it may be a little less polished than the stories I normally post are.

Old Years' Memories; New Years' Visions

Item 5224022: Gold locket embossed with design reminiscent of a vine-wound clockface. Contains a single miazin crystal, a lock of tightly curled black hair, and a miniature pencil sketch cut to fit the locket. Pencil sketch appears to show a man and woman sitting side by side, holding hands. Faces are obscured by creasing and water damage, but female appears to have dark, curly hair, and man is wearing a top hat. World of Origin: Fuila (1-4), via naturally-occurring dimensional funnel in northern Chania, +55:-06, probably made between 3426 and 3428 P.C..

 

Collection: 1-4 Artifacts (Jewelry). Item 5224023: Thin, round-bladed 3.5-in knife made of silver with no crossguard and a single carmelian stone for the pommel. Hilt resembles a stylized Type E dragon. World of Origin: Fuila (1-4). Specific coordinates unknown. Likely from pre-600 P.C.. Confiscated from stash of noted interworld thief Elihu Glas. Collection: 1-4 Weaponry (Bladed).

 

Another box finished, its contents tagged and sorted and recorded in the archive log. This was hardly how Tamison had expected to spend his Turning Eve, but he wasn't about to complain. His recent assignment to the Interworld Archive was the best thing to happen to him in years. Forget adventure! Forget making a name for himself that would go down in history! People who went down in history only did so by facing off against werecats and mad mages and bears or by being so unbelievably, unbearably brilliant that they made normal people look like babbling infants by comparison. Tamison was honest enough with himself to know he wasn't the latter, and he'd had his fill of the former without achieving any degree of fame except the kind that comes from being thoroughly embarrassed in front of people he desperately wanted to impress.

 

But no more! This new year, there would be no more skin-of-the-teeth adventures. He wouldn't even have think about them except when he needed a good story to share at a party or over coffee with the other archive workers . . . especially with that pretty research wizard — Willow, her name was — who took breaks from her work at nearly the same time Tamison did and who was always happy for a chat. She was studying the way in which similar cultures tended to develop across different worlds, she'd told him, and expected to be based at the Archive for at least five years. She always appreciated his harrowing accounts from the last few years, whether or not he polished them up, and she never made him feel like a fool or yelled at him for doing his job, unlike some people.

 

Yes. This would be a nice, quiet year. Perhaps the start of a nice, quiet life. No more chasing around after once-lost wizard prodigies. No more deadly encounters turned to daring escapes. No more putting his foot in his mouth in the situations where it would have the most deadly consequences. It was just what he needed.

 

Tamison returned to his work table and opened up the next box of items to be sorted. A mass of paper expanded with a noise like a rustling sigh as soon as he opened the lid, and several pieces slid off the top of the pile and floated down to rest on the table. He double-checked the box for a tag. Miscellaneous pictures and photos received by anonymous donation, was all it said. Well, that was all right. It would be tedious to work through everything, but at least people tended to write dates on pictures. When you were lucky, they wrote other things too. And if you weren't lucky, well, paper responded well to tracing magic. With the slightest satisfied flourish, Tamison gathered up a stack of pages from the box's overflow, readied his pen, and set to work.

 

Item 5224024: Pencil sketch on thick woven paper. Heavily creased with one horizontal fold and three vertical and torn along the edges. Sketch shows a section of a rocky mountain range as seen from a significant height. A Type B or C dragon flies above the peaks about three-quarters across the page. The signature in the corner appears to read "Tessa F." An inscription on the back reads "Apl 462. DR Mountains from dragonback with Aunt R." Origin: Berstru (1-5). Specific coordinates unknown. Created in Apula (4th month) in 462 L.R. or 2679 P.C.. Collection: 1-5 Artwork (Sketches, Non-Masters)

 

. . .

 

Item 5224031: Photograph on glossy paper. Square composition with 0.5in white margin on top, left, and right side, 1.5in white margin on bottom. Photograph shows a rock carved with some form of carved letters or runes, partially entangled in vines. Cursive handwriting in bottom margin reads "Arrival at real rune-stone! Good to be home. Ish. 8/26/2013". Origin: Earth (1-3), +45.9476:-91.8330. Taken August 26, 2013 L.R. or 6015 P.C.. Collection: 1-3 Artwork (Photographs, Non-Masters)

 

The handwriting on the photo looked oddly familiar. Tamison picked up the photo to study it more carefully, holding it so his fingers touched only the thinnest edges of the paper. He couldn't quite place it. Perhaps it was the same as the handwriting on some of the letters he'd been sorting yesterday.

 

He slid the photo into its envelope and tagged it a bit more quickly than was strictly necessary. Once, he, like many others, had entertained a certain level of fascination with Earth, one of the few worlds with no natural access to magic of any kind except that which trickled in via portals. Now he couldn't think of the world without recalling that disastrous first meeting . . .

 

And, of course, she'd had to follow him here. She'd claimed it was unintentional and that she had to come here anyway to do what she believed she was meant to do. That it was just coincidence. Once upon a time in a daydream, he'd have thought she was secretly coming here because she wanted to be close to him. Now, he wouldn't be surprised if she secretly liked keeping him off-balance and on his toes. But she did have research to do, and it did make sense for her to do it here, so he had no grounds to ask her to leave.

 

Item 5224033: Replica of Morte Revenau's "Fall From the Tower". Oil on canvas. Origin: Fuila (1-4), +43.00149:-15.9847. Created in the sixth month of 3429 P.C., based on original painting from 3427 P.C.. Collection: 1-4 Artwork (Paintings, Masters Replicas)

 

. . .

 

Item 5224037: Colored pencil sketch on thick paper. Uncreased, minor tears on edges. Sketch shows the ruins of a stone building. A colonnade of Thetonic columns remains standing, leading to what was a large doorway that has fallen in. Tallest standing walls appear to be 20ft, but were clearly taller at one point. Handwritten (cursive) inscription on back reads, "Remains of New Council Building. Clearly not so new now, LOL. Wonder what happened here?" Origin: Darachan (2-2), +23.0385:-50.2133. Created 7568 P.C.. Collection: 2-2 Artwork (Sketches, Non-Masters)

 

Tamison paused and traced his finger over the paper again in the pattern to reactivate the tracer. The same result appeared: this world, Darachan, some two thousand years in the future. Well, that wasn't entirely unheard of. Occasionally things slipped through the cracks of time as well as the gaps between worlds. But it was unusual for there to be a time-gap without a world-gap — unusual for items to fall back or forward in time without landing in another world as well.

 

He hesitated, glanced up towards the ceiling and the Archive towers and the laboratories and workshops in those towers, the ones reserved for those doing not just research but theoretical application, as many called it when they didn't want to acknowledge the risk of that application ripping non-mendable holes in reality or, at the least, killing the people doing it. Should he . . .?

 

No. She'd get along without it. They all would. He'd tell her later, if she asked. Or she could find it for herself in the archive record. He'd spent two years caught up in her life — initially thinking he would be her guide, her counsellor, and more, and gradually realizing his mistake — and he wasn't taking a risk on getting entangled again more than he already was. With a final shake of his head, he slid the sketch into a protective sleeve, tagged it, and placed it in the appropriate box.

 

Item 5224036: Black-and-white photograph. Grainy and marred by water damage. Photograph shows a person standing next to a Thetonic column, one of several in a row. The ruins of the New Council Building (see Item 5224035) can be seen in the background. Person is tall, relatively thin. Dressed in a Darachanian wizard's robe and an Earthan or Fuilan coat, hip length. Face/features too blurry to make out except for significant quantities of dark hair. Handwritten (cursive) inscription on back reads, "By the ruins of the New Council Building." Origin: Darachan (2-2), +23.0385:-50.2133. Created 7568 P.C.. Collection: 2-2 Artwork (Photographs, Non-Masters)

 

. . .

 

Item 5224043: Black-and-white photograph. Photograph shows a reception at the Chanian Royal Palace in Rivenford. The central figure of the photo is Prince Josiah Chambers, dressed in formal suit and crown, who speaks to a woman turned away from the camera. The woman is fair-haired and wears a wide-skirted dark ballgown and a crown or hair ornament with several points. Behind the prince, a short woman with equally short, curly hair walks away from the camera quickly enough that her figure is blurred. Handwritten (cursive) inscription on back reads "Royal Crossings Night Ball, Rivenford." Origin: Fuila (1-4), +43.00143:-15.98467. Created in the fifth month of 3425 P.C.. Collection: 1-4 Artwork (Photographs, Non-Masters)

 

. . .

 

Item 5224044: Grainy color photograph. Photograph shows two nearly-identical people fighting with swords in a forest. Both persons are female, young adult or older teen, and have features suggestive of some of the Old Families of Berstru. Both wear travel-stained clothing, one in green and brown and one in black. A second figure in black is just barely visible in the trees in the background, her face obscured by shadows. Leaves intrude into the edges of the frame as if the photograph was taken through foliage. Origin: Berstru (1-5), +31.33:+23.43 with an Earthan or Chanian camera. Created in 439 L.R. or 2656 P.C.. Collection: 1-5 Anadimensional Artwork (Photographs, Non-Masters)

 

. . .

 

Item 5224057: Grainy color photograph. Photograph shows a crowd running to the left away from some kind of flaming structures. A somewhat blurred, dark-haired woman in a torn green dress or robe stands with her hands raised in front of the flames. Armored figures bearing spears run towards her and the crowd. Origin: Berstru (1-5), +43.97034:+27.01562 with an Earthan or Chanian camera. Created in 445 L.R. or 2662 P.C.. Collection: 1-5 Anadimensional Artwork (Photographs, Non-Masters)

 

A sudden shock of magical overflow rippled through the air and jolted against Tamison's skin, prickling and tingling as if his whole body had been asleep and had just gained feeling again. He dropped his pen and shook out his suddenly-leaden hands, flexing his fingers until they could move properly again. The Archive was warded with eleven generations of wizards each adding their own protections, layered one on top of each other. Nothing remotely dangerous could get in without being let in by multiple people — for so much as a person to enter was immensely difficult. But magical backwash from the experiments in the towers was something else.

 

It was probably Carrie's fault. Tamison scowled at nothing in particular. That would be no surprise at all. He had only the vaguest sense what she was working on — she'd told him once, but he hadn't listened — but he knew it was something complicated with portals. And anything with portals took — and released — significant amounts of magical energy.

 

Still scowling, Tamison gathered the papers the burst of magic had scattered over the table and picked up his pen once more. Magic overflow or no magic overflow, he had work to do. And maybe if he finished early enough in the evening, Willow would agree to welcome the new year with him and some good, strong eggnog.

 

Item 5224057: "The Shadowwalker and Victory" by Iela Morrow. Oil on canvas. Painting portrays the parade celebrating the Aralan victory over Vtillus Terian's forces in the Black Morning war. Origin: Aralan (1-7), -33.4743:+69.3021. Painted Fellthen 12, 1869 L.R. or 3894 P.C.. Collection: 1-7 Artwork (Painting, Masters)

 

. . .

 

Item 5224060: Photograph on matte paper. Photo portrays

 

Tamison paused with his pen held poised on the page. Ink began to pool at the tip, but he barely noticed. The photo held his gaze locked on the central figures in the scene: a bride and groom in traditional Darachan wedding garb — the groom in deep blue robe and white shirt, the bride in palest pink and gold. They held each other close on a crowded dance floor, leaning in for a kiss. The bride was mostly turned away from the camera, but the groom was nearly facing it — and that was what Tamison couldn't look away from. Though the image was poorly lit and slightly blurred, he couldn't deny what he saw. The face of the groom — that was his face. A bit older than he currently was, but his all the same.

 

He flipped the photo and read the inscription. Mr. and Mrs. T. Quercus, at last. Took them long enough! May their life together be long and happy. 8.30.79.

 

Quercus. That was the name that would be his to take once he was married. It wasn't a common name, by any means. But how . . .?

 

The handwriting. It was the same as many of the other images he'd sorted. And now he was beginning to think where he'd seen it before.

 

The last of the backwash prickled on his skin. He glanced upward again. Then, working on a hunch. He set the photo carefully aside and returned to the previous items he'd sorted.

 

The woman standing in front of the flames couldn't be identified. But the hair was certainly dark and wild enough, and the green dress . . .

 

And there, in the background of the photo at the palace — a woman, dark-skinned and wearing a gown that could be a shade of green, with dark curls escaping from her updo. She was in the crowd in the painting of the parade, and the woman by the colonnade could certainly be her . . . Again and again, she appeared, always just a bit out of focus, a bit obscured, whether she was the subject or merely a face in a crowd.

 

Tamison turned to the box again, skimming through as quickly as he could while still searching. She wasn't in every picture. But she was in enough. And hadn't Carrie been asking for anything that had slipped through time?

 

Then he found the photos — two of them, partially stuck together where the coating on the bottom paper had softened. In the first, Carrie — years older but still recognizable — stood by a brick wall stained with weather and paint and mold, looking over her shoulder at the camera. On the flip side of the photo, an inscription read, Back where it all began. Remember this?

 

And then the second: sepia-toned, grainy, taken from behind and just to the left of the subject. Carrie stood in one of the tower labs, her hand outstretched, her curls falling out of their bun. Her face was just visible, strained with concentration. Her fingers were midway through some process that made the air before her shimmer just enough to be noticeable . . .

 

Tamison flipped the picture. I think I must've caused the burst when I popped in to snap this. Sorry. Tam, I don't know it now, but I'll need your help in not too long. Hurry up — Room 34 — and you'll be just in time.

 

Tamison stared at me message. No. He had what he wanted. He liked the Archive. He liked his work and Willow and the peace and quiet. He wasn't about to give that up. Not for her. Not to go on adventures once again.

 

But if she needed him . . .

 

He looked again at the wedding picture. That had to mean something, didn't it? It meant he survived. It meant he found someone. It meant Carrie cared enough sometime to preserve a memory of . . . well, of an event that hadn't happened yet. But would. Or perhaps wouldn't, if he didn't do this.

 

"Oh, confound it," he muttered under his breath. He packed the unsorted papers, all but one, back into their box and scribbled a quick note for someone to find later if the worst came to worst. Then he slid the photo in his pocket and rushed out the door. He'd pause at Willow's office. Maybe she'd be interested in doing some fieldwork. If nothing else, he'd tell her what he was doing so she'd know.

 

And after that . . . Well. He'd see what new world awaited him in this new year.

Valentine's Day Special: Beauty and the Bard {Tiria}

Ok, so this is not actually a Beauty and the Beast retelling, but I was stuck for a title, so there you go. Anyway. For Valentine's Day, my D&D players requested that I write a short story about how two of the romantically-involved NPCs, Lady Tiria Serys (aka the chief quest-giver) and Ardent the bard (aka Bardent), met. (They all ship this couple to some degree or another. It's great and makes me SO PROUD.) Since I was already planning to write a Valentine's Day short story, I happily complied . . . and then, because I'm an overachiever, I decided to write two versions of the story, one from each perspective. You'll find Lady Serys's side of things here, and you can hop over to my other blog to get Ardent's version. (They're more different than you'd expect.) Hopefully, this will be reasonably enjoyable even for people who aren't in my D&D campaign.

Beauty and the Bard: Tiria's Story

Sometimes, Tiria wondered if elves thought humans had exceptionally dull hearing or if they knew and simply didn’t care.

All that afternoon — ever since she arrived in Kerath, honestly — the stares and whispers had followed her. She’d thought perhaps the gala this afternoon would be an escape. It was meant to be in her honor, after all, a welcome to the newest member of the ruling nobility in Croishaid. But if anything, the tide of hushed voices behind her back had swelled. And even with a group of court bards working their calming spells and songs, she felt the mingled shame and frustration bubbling and ready to burst.

She glanced up to see a trio of elven nobles bent together, staring at her. As she did, they hastily straightened up, spreading smiles over their faces as if to hide the fact that they’d been gossiping a moment before. Tiria’s grip tightened on her glass. A year ago, those same people had offered her sympathy on her father’s failing health and congratulated her on how bravely and faithfully she tended to him and the duties he could not attend. Yet now, when she only sought to carry on his legacy, they stared at her. Scorned her.

She couldn’t take this anymore. She set down the cup on the tray of a passing servant, spun, and hurried into the relative privacy of the hedge maze that surrounded the celebration pavilion. She felt the stares following her, and her emotions swelled as she passed out of range of the bards’ spells. What had changed between a year ago and now?

Foolish question. She knew what had happened. Her father — by adoption, not blood, but no less true for all that — had finally succumbed to a long, devastating illness and joined the Divine in the heavens. And she had turned from a perceived charity project taken a bit far to a ruling noble without a bloodline or heritage. To the elves of Kerath, she was a wild card; to the other human nobles, she was an interloper. And so they gossiped. They looked for rumors to discredit her. And false as she knew most of those rumors were, that didn’t stop them from stinging.

The music faded into the distance, and Tiria stopped and sank onto a bench to compose herself. Her shoulder shook with barely-contained frustration and anger. She shouldn’t have left, she knew. She should have stayed. Departing only fed the whispers. Only showed that they held power over her. But, calming spells or not, she didn’t think she could have held out much longer. Not with the things they’d said about her father, her mother. Not with her grief a mere four-months raw.

Deep breaths, Tiria. She shut her eyes and focused on that. On the in-and-out of every breath. Divine help me, will this be my life forever? Perhaps she should never have agreed when her father told her that he wanted her to be his heir, not just his daughter, back when the illness was new.

Jaunty music invaded her bubble of calm. Tiria’s eyes popped open, and she stiffened, looking in the direction of the sound. A moment later, a man rounded the corner, plucking the strings of a lute and humming, a pensive look on his face. He looked like the people of the Errance court — dark-haired and dark-eyed and copper-skinned. But his formal finery was gold and green, the colors of no nation, and he wore no symbol pinned to his tunic or short cape. One of the hired bards, then, or some adventurer friend of Lord and Lady Kerath.

“What are you doing here?” The words came out more snappish-sounding than Tiria intended. “The party is back there.”

He stopped walking, though not playing. “So I’m aware, oh lovely lady. But they have musicians enough there already. If I did not wander this maze, who would provide fine music for pretty ladies like yourself?” He smiled, then — audacity! — winked.

“Perhaps I do not prefer music just now.” With effort, Tiria schooled her expression into her best imitation of Lord and Lady Kerath’s imperious stares. “If I did, I should not be here, listening to your playing.”

“Ah, you wound me!” He did not look particularly wounded. “A poem, then? Or an epic tale? Or perhaps simply conversation? It’s hardly right that a lady like yourself should be left alone in distress.”

“And how do you know I am in distress?”  Tiria snapped. “Sir bard, if you are lost, the party is down this path. And if you are not, and you will not leave, then I shall.” With that, she picked up her skirts, brushed past the bard, and hurried deeper into the maze.

All she wanted was to be left alone. All she wanted was for one person to look at her as they had before she was Lady Serys, not Lady Tiria. Was that so much to ask?

~~~

A hum of conversation filled the teahouse as Tiria entered, her servants and guards stripping off from her at the door. A dark-haired young woman greeted her with a bow and escorted her to one of the low tables that filled the room, assuring her that tea would be out in the moment and inquiring if anyone would be joining her.

Tiria shook her head mutely, already aware of the sideways glances of the noble and wealthy sitting at some of the other tables. There were fewer of those than there had been last week — that was some blessing. Perhaps with time, all would accept that, regardless of her parentage, she’d been given this position fairly. Perhaps she could eventually earn their true respect. Eventually.

As she waited for her tea to be brought out, she studied the teahouse. A dozen delicate scents flowed through the air, pulled from cups and pots on round tables and trays. Elves, gnomes, and halflings dressed in pale blues, greens, and pinks wove through the tables, checking on guests. Eventually, her eye was drawn to the chairs in the corner set out for musicians. Though the quiet string piece suggested a quartet at least, only one bard sat there, strumming a lute. He seemed somehow familiar, dark-haired and smiling . . .

Tiria frowned as she placed him. The bard from the party. The rude one. Well, not rude, perhaps. But he had been a bit overly set on keeping her company when she just wanted to be alone.
The bard looked in her direction, met her eye. Tiria felt her cheeks redden as she realized she’d been caught staring now. She hastily looked away — because, of course, she had to make it even more obvious. Wonderful work, Tiria. Wonderful.

The tea tray arrived: a blown glass teapot, a wirework basket of leaves, a delicate teacup, a plate of fruit, teacakes, and such. The woman who’d brought it delicately placed the basket in the pot and poured boiling water into it from a second pot, this one metal with the telltale runes of a heat spell inscribed along its base. Tiria watched; she’d been told that the experience of coming here was half the pleasure, but for all the care and ritual, it still seemed like nothing more than a pot of tea and a plate of sweets.

The woman bowed and departed. Tiria picked up a strawberry and nibbled at it distractedly. She should have found someone to come with her. She was the only one here eating alone. Foolish, that it bothered her. Six months ago, even six days ago, it wouldn’t have. She’d have rejoiced in time to herself. Now the lack of a person — a friend, an ally, even an opponent — across from her felt as shameful as if she’d walked out without half her clothes on.

The music changed, shifting to another gentle, elegant tune. Tiria tensed — this was one of the most common songs used for a calming spell — but no suppressing blanket settled over her mind.
“Pardon me, my lady, but you seem to be drinking alone. Is that true, or might I be able to remedy that?”

Tiria looked up. There was the bard standing by her table, his lute on his shoulder and a smile on his face. “You again?”

“Indeed. I fear we started off on the wrong foot last time we met.” He bowed. “My name is Ardent, as in, ‘ardent admirer of your beauty.’ And your name, my lady?”

Ardent. The name, coupled with the face, seemed familiar for some reason. Or perhaps he had mentioned it the other day and she’d forgotten. “T- Serys.” Would she ever get used to introducing herself as her country first and her own self second? “Tiria Serys.”

“An honor to meet you, Lady Serys. I have heard about you — all good things, of course.” He gestured to the empty chair across from her. “So, may I join you?”

“If you must.”  Tiria raised an eyebrow at him the way her father so often had at her when she was younger and more foolish. “I would think you had work to do.”

“As you may see, my lady, I am on break and can think of no better way to spend it than speaking with a noble woman such as yourself.” The bard sat, stretching his legs in front of him with one knee crossed over the other. “I apologize for the other day. I thought to help, but instead forced myself upon you.”

“Your apology is accepted.” Tiria sipped her tea, watching the bard’s hands. The thought that he might be an assassin who wanted to poison her tea had just crossed her mind. “But — you force yourself upon me today instead?”

“I did ask today. You could easily have said no, or this bard is annoying me; someone call the guard and have him hauled off to a jail cell. I’m told that’s a perk of being nobility.” The bard grinned cheekily at her. “I quite appreciate your not taking advantage of that particular power just yet.”

“Yet.” Tiria took another sip of tea, then picked up a teacake from the tray. She nudged the tray towards the bard. “So why approach me again?”

The bard took a lemon teacake and broke it in half thoughtfully. “I enjoy making friends. And I thought perhaps you could use one, if you would give me the time of day.” He glanced over at her. “If I may say so, my lady, I’ve heard the whispers. I’ve seen the looks. It’s not an easy thing to suddenly find yourself the target of every gossip-monger and evil-eyed old noble in the city, let alone half the continent.”

“It isn’t, no.” The words slipped out before Tiria could stop them. She stiffened, pulled her reserve back together. What was she thinking? Being so open with a stranger? “And how would you know about that?”

“I’m a bard, my lady. It comes with the territory.” He sighed. “And I’ve caught my share of scorn for other reasons as well.”

A green-clad server approached the table carrying another cup and pot of tea. She set it down on the bard’s side of the table. “Your tea, sir.”

“Thank you,” the bard said, then, once the server moved off, he looked at Tiria. “Does my memory deceive me, my lady, or do I fail to recall your ordering tea for me?”

“I didn’t. You didn’t order it?”

“No.” The bard opened the lid of the teapot and sniffed the steam. He wrinkled his nose, made a few brief motions, muttered something. In response, the steam rising from the pot turned green. “Poisoned, as I thought. Do you happen to see the Ladies Errance anywhere about?”

Tiria scanned the teashop. “I see Lady Morrigan Errance just over there.” She nodded towards the far side of the tearoom, where the red-haired woman sat with a dark-haired man — Tareth Errance, Tiria was fairly sure, Morrigan’s husband of six months.

“Ah.” Ardent sighed. “That’s a pity. It seems that would be my cue to leave.” He stood and bowed. “Thank you for letting me share your time, my lady. I hope we’ll meet again sometime.”

“I imagine we will. You seem to have a knack for it.” Tiria watched him head for the door, eyes narrowed. What would Morrigan Errance care about a simple bard? He wasn’t bad enough to have offended her musical sensibilities, nor did he seem the type to have impugned upon the younger Lady Errance’s honor. Was he just putting on airs to impress her, making out that he’d gotten poisoned tea?

Maybe. Or perhaps . . . Tiria took another sip of her own tea. She needed a distraction from the whispers. A bit of research into the current generation of Errances would be just the thing.

~~~

The bard found Tiria again three days later, as she stood at the edge of Lord and Lady Kerath’s great hall, watching the dancers spin and step their way through an Elvish triavima. Without taking her gaze off the dance, Tiria addressed the bard. “I expected you would be away by now.”

“I had some business to finish. And I did hope I would be find a way to run into you one last time.” He stepped forward, into her field of vision, and bowed, offering his hand. “Will you deign to dance with a lowly bard, Lady Serys?”

“Wait until the next dance, unless you wish to have to drag me along.” Tiria shook her head wryly. “I don’t think the elves who invented this dance designed it for humans to participate in.”

“True. They didn’t consider that some people bounce rather than floating.” The bard laughed.

Tiria glanced at him, trying to decide whether to ask her question now or later. Later. When we’re on the floor. That will be safer.

They stood in silence until the dance ended a few minutes later and a waltz began. Then, the bard took Tiria’s hand and led her onto the floor. As they took their positions, Tiria said, “You know, after our last meeting, I began wondering why Lady Morrigan would bother trying to poison you. At first, I thought it was simply an odd way of putting on airs. But then I realized that you’d never told me your last name.”

“So I didn’t.” The bard nodded. “And that made you draw another conclusion?”

“That made me do research to refresh my memory. I had forgotten that Lady Morrigan had a brother. He disappeared three years ago, just after completing two years after the Bardic Academy here in Kerath City.” Tiria stepped into a turn. As she came back around, she looked Ardent in the eye. “It’s rather bold of you to use your own name when you’re in hiding, isn’t it?”

“I should have known you’d figure it out. You’re far too brilliant not to.” Ardent grinned sheepishly. “I admit that it would be wise to leave my name behind entirely, but I’m rather attached to it. Usually, I manage to vanish into the hills within a day or two of my sister’s arrival in any city, before she can make another attempt to secure her place as heir. But this time, I had something I wanted to do that I thought was worth the risk.”

“Oh? And what was that?” Tiria raised an eyebrow at him.

“Meeting you again, my lady.” He gave her a dazzling smile. “And it has, indeed, been worth the risk.”

Risking his life simply to meet her. That was odd. Almost unnerving. But . . . not necessarily a bad thing. Not when he’d shown no ill intentions towards her all this time. “I’m honored. And now that you have, in fact, met me on three occasions, what do you intend to do?”

“Depart again — as soon as this event ends, in fact. Much as I wish I could remain longer, I suspect that an extended stay would put others in danger — you included. Morri is, unfortunately, quite ruthless.” Ardent sighed. “It’s the wilderness for a week or two at least after this. After that, who knows? It’s a wanderer’s life for me.”

“I see.” The music began to draw to a close. Tiria took a deep breath. Before she could think too much about it, she said, “If you ever happen to be in Serys City and in need of a place to stay, a good bard is always welcome in my hall.”

Ardent blinked, staring as if someone had just dropped a dragon’s hoard before him and told him it was all his. “My lady . . .” He recovered, a smile spreading back across his face. “Thank you. Shall I take that as an indication that I haven’t offended you too much these past few meetings?”

“You’ve been a friendly face among too many hostile stares, even if you do have a habit of pushing your way into others’ business. Even at home, I can use another ally and friend.” Tiria quirked a smile “Should I expect to see you sometime, then?”

“Undoubtedly.” The dance ended, and Ardent bowed low, brushing his lips over the back of Tiria’s hand. “Thank you, Lady Serys. Goodbye for now.”

“Goodbye, Ardent. Until we meet again.”

---

Well, there you have it. What did you think of the story? Would you be interested in hearing more stories from the world of my campaign? Please tell me in the comments!
Happy Valentine's Day, and thanks for reading!
-Sarah Pennington

New Year's Dream [A Mechanical Heart Short Story]

So, I originally wasn't going to do a New Year's short story this year, but then I had this idea, and, well, things happened. This takes place the winter before Mechanical Heart, so no worries about spoilers. That said, you might want to hop back and read "New Year, New World," last year's New Year's story.

New Year's Dream: A New Year's Short Story

It was supposed to be a quiet night. A peaceful one, even, if such a thing could be had on Crossings Night. Luis had been planning it for weeks. His family would be out at various celebrations. Josiah, of course, was busy with the royal Crossings Night ball, with its rich food and wine and lavish costumes and four — four — different sets of musicians to rotate in and out so the dancing wouldn't stop until the dancers grew tired. And that left Luis to welcome the coming year in the best possible way: alone, in his workshop, with an abundance of projects to tinker on and the remains of the eggnog to help the process along.

Of course, it couldn't last.

Luis's first warning that something odd was afoot came when every miazen crystal in his workshop sudden blazed with brilliant white light, nearly blinding him. His next was the sight of two people in colorful robes who dashed out of thin air and ran smack into his workbench.

"What in blazes —?" Luis leapt to his feet and cast about for the nearest weapon. He grabbed his largest screwdriver and a small knife, feeling keenly the inadequacy of either.

The two didn't seem to notice him. One — a young woman with dark skin and a wild mass of black curls — recovered first. She straightened and spun around, bright green robes swirling around her, and made a series of sharp slashing motions through the air in front of her. Sign language, like Josiah's sister used? But there was no one there for her to be signing to . . .

Something else began to appear, faint and shimmering. Luis could make out the hint of a huge, dark form, gleaming . . . teeth? Or perhaps claws? Yes, claws; they were becoming more and more real at a quicker rate than the rest of the being.

The other person, a man with severely mussed dark hair and a bruised face, pushed himself to his feet. "Shut it! Quick!"

"Patience. I'm working." The girl made a final slashing motion. The claws became suddenly solid and dropped to the floor, leaking blood. The rest of the being disappeared. "See? We're fine."

I have to be dreaming. Luis took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Either that or finishing off the last of the eggnog at dinner had been a severe mistake. "What just happened? Who are you, and what are you doing in my workshop?"

The woman turned around, pushing her curls back from her face. Her eyebrows rose slightly when she saw Luis, and then she gave him a lazy smile. "Sorry 'bout that. It's nothing for you to worry about. I'm Carrie, and this is Tamison. Who're you?"

Her accent sounded like caramel tasted: rich and warm, with more than a little stretch in the vowels. Luis blinked, then took Carrie's hand and shook it. "Luis Kronos. I think that if you're barging into my workroom, it's something I have a right to worry about."

"We're just passing through." Carrie smiled like she was enjoying her own private joke, while Tamison groaned. "Mind telling us where we are? Then we'll leave you to your . . ." She looked around. "Your whatever this is."

"Kronos Clocks and Gadgetry. This is the back workroom." Luis paused, noted the lack of recognition on either face, then added, "Upper Rivenford? Chania?"

"Chania?" Tamison's face grew red as the trim on his robes. He turned on his companion. "You used the wrong coordinates! Now we're not just in the wrong world; we're in the wrong dimensional orientation!"

Carrie blew out a long breath and put her hands on her hips. "I wouldn't've used the wrong coordinates if you'd've just gone on and told me the right ones the first time I asked instead of going on about secrecy and the will of the Wizard Council."

Tamison drew himself up proudly, offense written clear as newsprint across his anger-blotched face. "I was following orders!"

Luis held up a hand, his mind finally having caught up from where it had stuck a few moments ago. "Wait. Wait. The wrong world?" He blinked twice, then dropped his screwdriver, reached up, and started flipping through magnifications on his work goggles, hoping that somewhere in the transitory blurs between lenses, the two would disappear or at least resolve into something more reasonable, like a few friends playing a joke on him.

But the pair remained present, as they were, and the massive claws continued to slowly leak blood onto the wood floor. Luis pulled off his goggles and shook his head. "You're mad. Or I'm mad. Or dreaming."

"Dreaming, yeah. We can call it that." Carrie gave him another slow smile. "And in a moment, you'll wake up and we'll be gone." She gestured in the air again, her motions slow and swooping this time. Then she paused, frowning. "Or perhaps not."

Tamison frowned too. "It's not working. That's odd. There's more than enough ambient magic to power a short-lived portal, even one going between perpendiculars instead of parallels . . . wait." He turned to Luis. "What day is it?"

"It's Crossings Night, the last night of the year," Luis replied slowly. The fact that Carrie had agreed that this was all a dream suggested that it really wasn't a dream at all, but he didn't have a better explanation  . . . not unless all this was real. "What do you mean, between perpendiculars?"

"You've heard of parallel dimensions?" Tamison asked. "They're like that, but oriented differently. It's complicated." He turned back to Carrie. "We must be losing alignment!" Then, over his shoulder to Luis: "Quick, what's the time?"

Luis gave the man his best unimpressed look and gestured around the workshop at the dozens of clocks hung on the walls between shelves and toolboards. "Look for yourself."

Tamison glanced around and sagged slightly. "Ah. Yes. It's . . . oh, dragonsbreath. It's only half an hour to midnight. And by midnight, the alignment will be lost and we'll be stuck here and in this world's parallels for who-knows-how-many years, thanks to someone's haphazard portaling."

"Someone just saved your skinny rear from a mad sorcerer and his hoard of crazed werecats," Carrie huffed. "Where's the most likely spot to be aligned still?"

"Ah, well . . ." Tamison licked his lips nervously. "Usually it's a south-to-north progression . . . and high spots usually have the strongest connection between dimensions . . . moreso if they have a strong concentration of magical energy . . ."

"North, up high, lots of magical energy." Carrie turned to Luis. "What do you say, Luis Kronos? You know this city. Anywhere that fits the description?"

"Well . . ." Luis hesitated. "There is one place . . ."

But could he risk sending them there? After all, no one was supposed to enter the clock tower lest they risk draining the magic from the miazen crystals at an increased rate. But, then again, if these two were already magic, perhaps it would be all right.

"There's a clock tower," he said, finally. "It's north of us, and it's one of the highest spots in the city, and it's powered by magic."

"Perfect." Carrie's smile returned. "Care to show us the way?"

Again, Luis hesitated. It would be so much easier to stay in, to stick to what was left of his plan and hide out in his workshop. He imagined the crowds and lights and noise outside and grimaced.
But . . . if this was a dream, he wouldn't really be going out. And if it wasn't a dream, he couldn't leave these two in the lurch. True, he could give them directions, but it would be faster to just show them.

"Fine." He pulled his goggles back up. "It's a good thing for you that it's Crossings Night. You'll blend in better since everyone is already costumed. You'll need masks, though."

"That's easy enough to solve." Tamison gestured, and something shifted. Luis blinked. Masks had appeared on the two's faces: a small black domino mask on on Tamison and a larger, more elaborate green mask on Carrie. In addition, their robes had somehow changed so they looked more like costumes and less like clothes. A white shirt collar poked up from the top of Tamison's robe, and the front now hung open to reveal a waistcoat and trousers. Carrie's robes had become more fitted in the bodice, and the shape suggested that she was now wearing a corset and a full skirt beneath them. In addition, a tall, pointed hat with a bit of filmy pink fabric attached to the tip had appeared on Carrie's head, nestled among her curls.

Carrie looked down at herself and sighed wearily. "Lovely." She looked at Luis. "Won't you need a mask too?"

Luis tapped his goggles. "These will do well enough. Now, let's go."

He led the way out of the shop, locking it behind them, and up the crowded streets. Even at nearly midnight, musicians and dancers still made their rounds, tailed by crowds of masked revelers dressed in dramatic blacks or brilliant rainbow hues. Their laughter and shouts mixed with the music into a joyful, chaotic cacophony. Luis grimaced, remembering all too keenly the reasons he hadn't wanted to come out tonight, and sped up.

He guided Tamison and Carrie as quickly as he could up towards the clock tower. Occasionally, some of Luis's friends or acquaintances would call out to him, inviting him and his companions to join them or pretending offense at the fact that Luis had rejected them in favor of a pair of strangers. Luis just waved and hurried on.

Thankfully, the crowds thinned as they moved further and further into the wealthy part of town. Here, the celebrations were mostly held in shops and homes. Luis caught glimpses of a few through windows, though he mostly didn't look, even when they passed the Clockmakers' Guild Hall where Luis knew his parents would be celebrating.

By the time they reached the clock tower, less than ten minutes remained 'til midnight. Luis tried the door. "It's locked." He checked his pockets — nothing. "And I don't have my locksmith's tools."
Tamison peered at the lock. "And it looks to be steel and iron. Unpleasantly resistant to magical meddling."

Carrie put a hand on the side of the tower. "That's a pity. This place is just bursting with ambient magic." She straightened her shoulders. "We'll just have to try from here. Unless . . ." She eyed the roof of the tower with a speculative gaze.

The color slowly drained from Tamison's face. "Oh no. You wouldn't . . ."

Carrie smiled — sharply, even wickedly. "Of course not. You're welcome to stay here. I'm sure you'll find this world plenty enjoyable while you're waiting for the dimensions to align in a safer location."
"Don't even think about it." Tamison scowled. "Fine. We'll try it your way."

"I thought you'd come around." Carrie turned to Luis and put a hand on his arm. "Thanks for your help. Whatever happens, we appreciate it. Assuming we don't fall, we probably won't see us again, and I'll make sure you don't remember us except as a dream like you thought we were. It'll be safer that way — less risk that someone will try to get information from your memories and hurt you in the process. But if you don't mind, wait around until we're gone to make sure we don't fall and die."




"I will. Glad I could help. Good luck, wherever you're headed." Luis glanced from Carrie to the tower roof. "What exactly are you doing, by the way?"


"This." Carrie grabbed Tamison's arm. Then both lifted off the ground and rose higher and higher towards the tower top.

Luis watched, gaping. Twice, their progress faltered and they dropped a foot before recovering and continuing to rise. But at last, they alighted on the roof of the tower, barely visible in the darkness. Luis had to squint to make them out, but he thought he saw Carrie gesturing, stepping forward —
Then something in his mind went blip, and his vision blacked out for a split second.

Luis blinked and looked around. What was he doing here at the clock tower? On Crossings Night of all nights? He'd planned to spend the evening in his workshop with his inventions, he remembered that much. And then . . . had he fallen asleep? He vaguely remembered something hazy and dream-like: a girl in green, a monster, people flying, and an urgent need to . . . do something. Had he sleepwalked all the way out here?

The tower struck midnight, the bells ringing out brilliant and clear over the city. Luis stared up at the top of the tower instinctively. In his dream, he'd needed to get to the top of the tower for some reason. But that was nonsense. No one could go up in the towers.

And yet . . . Luis frowned. Was that a shadow on the clockface? Something moving inside?

Nonsense. Luis shook his head and set off down the street as the last bells died away. He was sleep-deprived to even think of it. Honestly, he should've just gone to bed an hour ago rather than staying up to greet the new year.

And it was the new year now. Luis grinned. Tomorrow — today at this point — Josiah would come by with leftover fancy food and tales of what happened at the royal ball. And he'd have some new goal for the year, something big and impossible and shining and noble. Who knew what it would be; Luis would be happy just to get into the Inventors' Guild. And who knew? Maybe this would be his year. He'd just have to wait and see.