Timbrelle’s hands took over and snatched the sapphire away from Adna. In the blink of an eye she swallowed the tear shaped jewel the length of her pinky finger. She came back to her senses all at once like the hypnotist had snapped.

“I think we should do an emerald next.” Adna mused, watching the dome’s brazier through the many remaining jewels in her mesh bag. “You like green. Right?”

Timbrelle could not answer from her place on the floor. Her only options were an agonized groaning or passionate dry-heaving. The result was, rather alarmingly, both.

“It went down sideways.” She sobbed.

“Poor baby. Eat your gemstones and get up. I think I have a lead on the medium.”

With Adna’s solid arm supporting her, Timbrelle walked on noodly legs to the study.

“Is that where you go every night—clue hunting? Or have you found a second muse?” Timbrelle asked.

“Who says a girl can’t have more than one paramour? So, in order, the answers are one: none-ya; two: business.” The white haired woman dumped her into an armchair and handed her an untitled book.

“You read a book?” Timbrelle asked, genuinely surprised.

“Don’t be rude. I just get extra sleepy when I read them.”

“You’re always sleepy. You fell asleep at a crosswalk this morning!” Timbrelle chided.

“We already talked about this and agreed that it was a long light.” She shook her head. “You’re always distracting from the point. The book is a diary kept by a young child in the seventh century.”

“What century is it now? It’s gotta be up to like eighteen or nineteen. This book is old-old.”

“Nineteen. Shorna told me to be very careful with it.”

“She let you take a book home? Especially this one; It’s ancient. How very… out of character.” Timbrelle said.

“Yep. As long as I have it back before her shift tomorrow, there will be no issues.” Adna assured. “The translation should be absolutely monstrous. Lucky for us I ‘checked out’ a thesaurus or dictionary or encyclopedia—it’s definitely something.”

Timbrelle opened the journal carefully. “I don’t want to touch it. Shorna will know. She’ll smell my presence on the book. …Hey, hold on. I thought you said this would be difficult. Is this a prank? I don’t think I can handle Kitos if they’re as crazy here about pranks as they were back home.” She flipped the journal around to show Adna. “See? Good ol’ English.”

“Een-glish?” Adna asked. “Is that another name for Olde Yostier? I’m pretty sure that’s what’s written there.”

“It’s English. It’s written in the language we’re speaking right… now. Why are you speaking English, anyway? They were pretty prolific colonizers but I don’t think they made it this far. Can I see that other book you brought?”

Adna handed it over and Timbrelle flipped through the pages. Near as she could tell, it was a fairly straightforward translative dictionary. Arranged much liked a regular English-to-whatever dictionary it listed two words side by side and a definition afterwards. Unlike any dictionary she’d encountered, each entry read similarly.

Boat is boat. A waterfaring vessel.

Compass is compass. A magnetic device used to discern direction.

Candle is candle. String dipped repeatedly into bees wax to form a stick burnable for light or warmth.

Timbrelle shut the book and rubbed her eyes. “That book was book. I could hardly read it without getting sick. It felt like the paper was sliding around once I focused on it. My head…”

“And you still think I’m the dumb one for avoiding books? But, uh, since you don’t need to translate the journal, maybe you should be in charge of reading it.”

The journal had been filled with the immature ramblings of a young farm girl. They farmed the paddies on a continent called Domomon. Loren described it as a pseudo-continent since the land never actually breaks the surface of the water. They’d see it return in fourteen more years along with the “mud puppies” the girl complained about. From her description they sounded just like slugs… if they were the size of a loaf of bread with armored scales like an armadillo.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

“‘God gave us a ruby today. He is full of crystals and surprises.’ Then she mentions Him again four years later—near the end. ‘Brassus comes to collect our lives. But we were already dead the moment they stole Our God’s heart.’ These are the only two mentions of the god I assume is Nerrus. Until one year later, someone else finishes the journal. They wrote only ‘Our God’s heart has been returned to the ocean.’” Timbrelle summarized her studies. A few minutes earlier Adna had been asleep beside the brazier. She now sat at attention.

“Is the translation accurate? Maybe ‘stole His heart’ means something else.” Adna speculated. “A romantic engagement?”

“That is entirely possible. Or maybe she’s just saying dramatic stuff because she’s thirteen at that point. Where I’m from, thirteen is prime time for sad poetry.” Timbrelle said.

“Can’t say I recall.”

“Oh yeah. Well, middle school is best left forgotten. Your factory reset might be a blessing in disguise.”

“Have you noticed that I don’t ask questions about your weird references anymore? It’s because I’ve given up.” Adna said, annoyed.

Timbrelle grabbed the woman’s hand. “Oh gods, Adna! You need to take me to the hospital! It must be a stroke or an aneurysm because for the life of me, I don’t remember asking for your opinion about my references.”

She tossed Adna’s hand back at her, icy.

Adna gaped at the zesty reply, then began to tear up.

“…Are you crying? Oh no, oh no. I thought that was a really good one. Was it too mean?” Timbrelle panicked.

“It’s not that.” She sniffed. “I’m just so proud. You’re a real bitch now.”

Timbrelle smacked the table with her open palm. “That’s it! I’m not telling you anymore movie synopses! I chose Pinocchio because I thought you wouldn’t be able to ruin a kids movie. I was wrong. Is that what you wanted to hear? I underestimated your abilities and that’s my own fault.”

Adna flipped through the dictionary idly. “Point goes to Adna. I have to hand it to you though, Timbrelle, that one was pretty good. I thought that time you’d win for sure.” She snatched the journal from Timbrelle’s hand. “Now I’m off to unsteal these books. I only have a little time before Shorna starts her shift.”

“You be careful. I’m more scared of Shorna than I am of Fede.” She warned.

“Shorna likes me now. I visit every day.” Adna boasted.

Timbrelle shot her a look. “I’m not saying you’re a hoe, I’m just saying: pick one. Unless you can get Davian on board with Shorna… wait, that’s exactly what you’re trying to do, isn’t it?”

“Calm down. Shorna is just a friend. I know it’s hard to believe I might have one, but it’s true.”

They snuffed the candelabra and made their way to the front room. The shack that made up the widely accepted Temple of Nerrus looked like nothing more than a modest home on the inside. Houses couldn’t get much smaller and this one was constantly in service. The chimney in the largely functioning temple kitchen had been stopped up by lava and dried with a considerable metamorphic “foot” protruding from the hearth. The temple kitchen was used for meal prep, the shack was used for cooking. As a result, the diminutive home almost always smelled of whatever pot Morto had going.

Morto was a quiet man. He’d tell you stories if you sat in silence long enough. For that reason, Adna had never heard him speak more than a word or two.

“Morto!” Adna bellowed at the man.

He offered her a wave as they entered through the door only to shut it, turn around and use it again. As always, Timbrelle had to apply her seal to open the door and let her out.

“Be safe! Don’t eat anything weird! And knock when you’re ready to come back in!” She called after Adna.

“I’m not a cat!” She snapped back.

She closed the door and turned to Morto. “She makes me crazy.”

He nodded, sympathetic.

Timbrelle sat at the counter across from Morto chopping some sort of root. The ruby nearest his knife hand flashed every time he sliced through the root. She didn’t mind the steady pulse of red light. It wasn’t as blinding as Fede or Loren’s aura cloud. His considerable rubies peeked out from the skin on his forearms, rather than his face and neck. However, it looked like it would be going on for some time from the number of roots he had ahead of him.

“Can I help?” Timbrelle asked.

He stopped cutting. The man looked her over, appraising her. After a moment he nodded and passed her his knife and the root he had been cutting.

Excited to be helping, Timbrelle started in- or she tried. The blade wouldn’t even penetrate the skin.

Morto watched her struggle for a while before saying, “Your ruby is too quiet.”

She looked up, panting. “Too quiet? I don’t understand.”

He furrowed his brow. “You ate a ruby but it isn’t loud enough. None of your gems are loud enough to cover… that.” He pointed to her head.

“Oh, you mean my anxiety?” She asked.

“No.” He responded.

Talking to the temple chef was no

easy task. This was the first time he’d opened up so quickly, but he wasn’t making sense.

Timbrelle suddenly remembered her lesson with Loren. “Can you hear auras?”

Morto nodded, accepting his knife back.

“All of them? Or just your bonded stone?”

“Just rubies. And you.” He pointed a root at her head and chest. “Here and here.”

“My head and my heart?” She asked, not following.

“Your head and your ruby.” He poked her sternum with a root. “I can hear it right here. Very quiet. Very weak. Your aura is too loud.”

Ping!

You have been diagnosed with Deafening Aura, this information will only be available to healers and in your bio to those of your party.

Ping!

Congratulations! You’ve discovered why you cannot bond aurora gems.

*New Objective: Quiet your soul

The window blinked away, no more context given.

“Ah shit.” Morto flinched, covering his ears. “Why did your aura chime?”

“You heard that? I thought only I could hear it.” She asked.

“Only you and I.” He resumed chopping roots and tossing them into a pot.

A companionable silence fell. Timbrelle felt herself relaxing to the monotonous thumping. It reminded her faintly of sitting at the counter while her mother chopped carrots. She smiled at the memory of her mom. There were so few that she had retained.

“Are you Unmade?” He asked, without looking up. The chopping of carrots the only sound as he waited.

“Yeah.” She responded softly.

“They have loud souls… loud auras… loud voices. Hard to be around, sometimes. They forget to be silent.”

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk this much.” She said.

Morto smiled faintly. “Too much to listen to.”