of owls concluded that one of the elements should be removed. They chose to keep the one they felt more important. The stars rejoiced as Fate was pulled apart. Ripped into pieces by beaks and talons.”
“Did no one try to stop them?” the star merchant asked.
“The moon would have, certainly, had she been there. They chose a night with no moon for the sacrifice. No one dared intervene save for a mouse who took Fate’s heart and kept it safe,” the traveler said, then paused to take a sip of wine. “The owls did not notice the mouse as they feasted. The owl who consumed Fate’s eyes gained great sight and was crowned the Owl King.”
There was a sound then, outside in the night, that might have been wind or might have been wings.
The traveler waited for the sound to cease before resuming the story.
“The stars rested, smugly, in their heavens. They watched as Time passed in broken-hearted despair and eventually they questioned all that they once thought indisputable truth. They saw the crown of the Owl King passed one to another like a blessing or a curse, as no mortal creature should have such sight. They twinkle in their uncertainty, still, even now as we sit here below them.”
The traveler paused to finish the last of the wine, the story ended.
“As I said, I do not care for stars. Stars are made of spite and regret.”
The star merchant said nothing. The constellation-covered bag rested heavily by the fire.
The traveler thanked the star merchant for the wine and for the company and the merchant returned the sentiments. Before retiring the traveler leaned in and whispered in the merchant’s ear.
“Occasionally, Fate pulls itself together again and Time is always waiting.”
The traveler left the star merchant alone, sitting and drinking and watching the fire.
In the morning when the stars had fled under the watchful eye of the sun the star merchant inquired whether the traveler had departed, if there might be time to bid a proper farewell.
The star merchant was politely informed that there had been no other guests.
ZACHARY EZRA RAWLINS sits on a velvet bench in the fanciest elevator he has ever occupied wondering if it is not an elevator at all but rather a stationary room rigged to feel like an elevator because he has been sitting in it for what feels like a very, very long time.
He wonders if it’s possible to have sudden-onset claustrophobia and his contact lenses are reminding him why he rarely wears his contact lenses. The probably-elevator hums and occasionally makes a shuddering movement accompanied by a scraping sound, so it is likely moving and his stomach feels as though he is falling at a polite rate in a gilded cage, or maybe he is more drunk than he thinks he is. Delayed-reaction cocktailing.
The chandelier hanging above him shakes and shimmers, throwing fragmented light over the slightly baroque interior, gold walls and maroon velvet mostly worn of their respective shine and fuzziness. The bee/key/sword motif is repeated on the interior doors but there is nothing else adorning anything, no numerical information, no floor indicator, not even a button. Apparently there is one place to go and they haven’t reached it yet. The paint along his back and arm has started to dry, metallic flakes of it clinging to his coat and hair, itching along his neck, and stuck underneath his fingernails.
Zachary feels too awake yet extremely tired. Everything buzzes, from his head to his toes, and he can’t tell if it’s the elevator or the alcohol or something else. He stands and paces, as much as he can pace in an elevator, no more than two steps in any given direction.
Maybe it’s the fact that you finally walked through a painted door and didn’t end up where you expected to, the voice in his head suggests.
Did I know what I expected? Zachary asks himself.
He pauses his pacing and faces the elevator doors. He reaches out to touch them, his hand falling on the key motif. It vibrates beneath his fingers.
For a moment he feels like an eleven-year-old boy in an alleyway, the door beneath his fingers paint instead of metal but reverberating and the jazz music from the party is stuck in his head, looping, layering a dancing spin over everything and suddenly it feels like the elevator is moving much, much faster.
Abruptly, it stops. The chandelier jumps in surprise, sending down a shower of twinkling light as the doors