The Tune She Left

Kaelen turned the Pyre-Chime’s outer ring one notch and felt the mechanism resist beneath his palm.

Cobalt frost was gathering on the Spire’s black stones. It traced the mortar seams and climbed the narrow windows, blue-white in the dark. The Chime stood silent at the tower’s heart, its iron ribs curved around a dull, fleshy center. Beneath them, runes glimmered faintly, as if something inside had opened one eye.

His scarred hand paused above a rune.

“Does the frost get into the oatmeal?”

Elora stood on the stair, one mitten on and one tucked under her arm. Her hair was a tangle from sleep. She had brought a chipped bowl with her, though the oatmeal inside had gone cold.

“Not if you put the lid on,” Kaelen said.

“I did.” She peered down at the bowl. “It still got cold.”

“Then the lid’s no good.”

She came closer and leaned over the rail, careful not to touch the ring. “Can I have the blue cup today?”

“It’s cracked.”

“You said it was only cracked on the outside.”

“That’s what I said.”

“So it’s still a cup.”

He looked at her. She waited, chin lifted, as if this had been a difficult point to prove. He wiped his hand on his apron and went to the shelf. The blue cup had a thin split at its base. He filled it with hot water from the kettle and set it beside her bowl.

“Hold it with both hands,” he said.

She did. The color came back to her fingers.

When Kaelen returned to the ring, Elora had settled on the lowest step with her breakfast. She hummed a few notes while she ate. The tune snagged at him, soft and familiar. His wife had used to sing it while she mended clothes. He could remember the motion of her hands, the uneven stitches she blamed on poor light. The tune was harder. He let it go and checked the runes.

The Chime’s inner ribs flexed once beneath the metal.

Kaelen withdrew his hand.

A knock sounded at the tower door below. He took the stairs down, Elora trailing him with the blue cup.

Mayor Oren waited in the entrance with two elders and a gust of freezing fog. Ice clung to his beard. He carried a folded map, softened at the creases from being opened too often.

“More black snow?” Kaelen asked.

“Closer to the east road,” Oren said. “The watch found it past the old marker stones. The tracks run south.”