the innkeeper.
The innkeeper looks at him quizzically for a moment and then he laughs.
“Can you come with me?” he asks.
Dorian, substantially warmer than he was when he arrived, nods and gets to his feet, placing the box on a table next to the chair.
The innkeeper leads him across the hall.
“This inn was once somewhere else,” the innkeeper explains. “Little has changed within its walls but I once mentioned to my wife that I sometimes miss the mice. They used to chew through sacks of flour and secret seeds away in my teacups, it was infuriating but I was accustomed to it and I found I missed them once they were gone. So she brings them to me.”
He stops at a cabinet tucked in between a pair of bookshelves and opens its door.
The shelves inside are covered with silver mice, some dancing and others sleeping or nibbling on minuscule pieces of golden cheese. One wields a small golden sword. A tiny knight.
Dorian reaches into the cabinet and picks up the mouse with the sword. It stands on a six-sided base.
“May I?” he asks the innkeeper.
“Of course,” the innkeeper replies.
Dorian brings the mouse knight back to the chair by the fireplace and places it into the indentation in the moon on the box. It fits perfectly.
He turns the mouse and the hidden lid clicks loose.
“Ha!” the innkeeper exclaims delightedly.
Dorian places the silver mouse with its sword down next to the box.
He lifts the lid.
Inside is a beating human heart.
ZACHARY EZRA RAWLINS, when he was very young, would play with crystals from his mother’s expansive collection: staring into them, holding them up to lights and gazing at inclusions and cracks and wounds fractured and healed by time, imagining worlds within the stones, entire kingdoms and universes held in his palms.
The spaces he envisioned then are nothing compared to the crystalline caverns he walks through now, with a torch held aloft to light his way and an owl perched on his shoulder, digging its talons into his sweater.
When he hesitates at intersections the owl flies ahead, scouting. It reports back with indiscernible signals relayed through blinks or ruffling of feathers or hoots and Zachary pretends to understand even though he does not and thus together they continue forward. Simon warned him that the sea was a far distance but failed to mention that the path was this dark and winding.
Now this man who is not quite lost in time and his feathered companion come to a campfire, well-built and burning, waiting for them. Next to the fire is a large cloth tent that appears to have sheltered many previous travelers in spaces with more weather. The inside is bright and inviting.
The tent is massive, tall enough for Zachary to stand up and walk around in. There are pillows and blankets that seem stolen from other places and other times and arranged here to provide respite for the passing weary traveler, too much color for such a monochrome space. There is even a post outside waiting for his torch to rest in, and something else hanging below it.
A coat. A very old coat with a great many buttons.
Zachary discards his travel-damaged sweater and carefully puts on Simon’s long-lost coat. The buttons are emblazoned with a crest, though in the light he cannot make out more than a smattering of stars.
The coat is warmer than his sweater. It is loose in the shoulders but Zachary does not care. He hangs his sweater on the post.
As Zachary buttons his new ancient coat the owl resettles itself on his shoulder and together they go to investigate the tent.
Inside the tent is a table set with a modest feast.
A bowl stacked with fruit: apples and grapes and figs and pomegranates. A round, crusty loaf of bread. A roasted Cornish game hen.
There are bottles of wine and bottles of mystery. Tarnished silver cups waiting to be filled. Jars of marmalade and honeycomb. A small object carefully wrapped in paper that turns out to be a dead mouse.
“I think this is for you,” Zachary says but the owl has already swooped down to claim its treat. It looks up at him with the tail dangling from its beak.
On the other side of the tent is a table covered with inedible objects, neatly laid out on a gold-embroidered cloth.
A penknife. A cigarette lighter. A grappling hook. A ball of twine. A set of twin daggers. A tightly rolled wool blanket. An empty flask. A small metal lantern punched