Heimee tugged at my sleeve. “That’s Guillingsbaer.”

To our left, a strange city perched on a hill, garish spires sprang from the center, some blood-red, others green and yellow, surrounded by a meager wall, especially compared with Alturin’s. What purpose could such a wall have? Windbreak?

“Why does it look like a pin cushion?” I asked.

“It’d take a while to explain. We’ll be home in a few hours.”

I thought about how he’d phrased it, “We’ll be home,” as if his adopting me was a done deal. I wasn’t going to say anything; after two weeks of camping, bed-sharing, checking Otto’s—the ox—stools to see what had made it sick, and having a numb bum, I was happy to get off the road, but I guess Heimee saw it in my face.

“I’ll tell you this,” he signed. “There’s plenty to do in the distillery. If you stay, I have work for you. I’ll give you food, clothing, and a place to sleep. It beats living as a beggar—I can promise you that. And if you’re a good hand, I’ll even pay you.”

I wasn’t in the mood to discuss my future. “Where did you learn sign language?”

Heimee frowned, gave me a lingering, searching look, and looked away.

I crossed my arms and considered his offer. The not-having-much-of-a-choice bothered me—angered me even. If I accepted it, I would also have to accept what had happened to me—that I was an orphan, and I wasn’t ready for that.

I could not stay with him for long. I just needed to get a little stronger, wait for the spring to come, then find that ordealing monster.

Heimee glanced back at me, then at the city, and sighed. “They’re proof this world is a sad, sad place, mostly populated by idiots.”

“What?”

“The pin cushion.” He nodded in the town’s direction. “For reasons only known to them, the Bastards and the Leohts think whoever has the highest building is the holiest of the lot. The Bastards build a Palrik, and the Leohts roll up their sleeves and build a taller Dendron. Like I said, idiots. Though that might be a euphemism on my part.”

“I see.” But of course, I didn’t.

Afterward, we reached a small village called Burrow (I would later find out that its actual name was Guillings Burrow, but no one ever called it that for obvious reasons), and everything looked alien: the muddy houses, the hilled countryside, the thick trees, and even the dirt looked more poop-ish. Then the smooth road turned to solid rock, forcing the cartwheels into grooves carved from years of use. The trepidation made my teeth clatter and my numb bum number.

That’s when things got a little familiar. Large rocks scattered here and there as far as I could see, though not as abundant as the ones found in the flatlands near the shattered mountains.

“When my grandfather bought this place,” Heimee explained, “he thought he had hit the jackpot. It was unbelievably cheap. He dreamed about making a living growing cereal. Poor fool. Little did he know the plot was entirely made of bedrock. The only things that grow here are moss, shallow grass, and frogs. It’s a good thing you’re deaf; I can tell that much with all that croaking. Pops tried to sell it back, of course, but no one wanted it. Then my mother had the brilliant idea to produce ale. And for a while, that’s what they did. They managed to make the grossest ale in the whole continent. They even got famous for it.” A nostalgic smile crossed his face. “You see those large rocks? Whatever caused the Great Shatter tossed them all the way here from the shattered mountains. Impressive, if you think about it. We called them frigates. See, because they look like ships.”

They didn’t look anything like ships to me. For one, they had no sails. Sure, some were larger than a house, but that alone doesn’t make them ships. Also, I should mention I had never seen a real ship before, only on the cover of books Mom used to read to me. Still, it made you wonder: what kind of force could have tossed such immense rocks so far away? Not even a mountain could do that.

Shortly after, a complex of several stone buildings began taking shape. One was long and tall, at least three stories high, with white letters reading HEIMS DISTILLERY across the façade, and ended on a large frigate, coming out of the far wall like a stone tumor. The other building was shorter and boasted a sizeable odd-looking chimney that reminded me of a mushroom growing on top of a larger mushroom that sprouted from the dark shingled roof.

“The long building is where we steep and malt the barley. The one with the chimneys is where we have the kiln and the still pots. The other small houses are a barn, bottling area, storage—among other stuff.”

I didn’t ask any questions since I had the hunch I was about to embark on a whisky-making tour. Then, as we cleared the larger building, a house came into view made from two large frigates joined together by a roof and clumsy stone walls. It looked like the two frigates had gotten together one day and decided to squeeze a house between them for fun.

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“I have to take Otto to the barn. But you make yourself at home.” Heimee fetched a long iron key from inside his jacket and gave it to me.

The shingled roof was slanted and undulated, the windows crooked in odd angles like the drawing of a six-year-old, and moss and lichen grew on every surface, giving the house a greenish tinge.

“The front door is on the left frigate. Take your shoes off before you enter.”

I circled the larger of the two frigates as Heimee drove away, discovering a stone porch and a door carved into the frigate. I unlocked the door, it led into a burnished tunnel, dug through the stone with carved shelves on each side, filled with shoes, tools, and bowls. Jackets and sticks hung from the wall. I tip-toed across the corridor, finger sliding across the stonework—smooth as porcelain. It led me into a tightly packed living room with a wicker couch and a tiny support table by the hearth. The kitchen had been dug out from the frigate, too, including the oven, stove, bench, and even the dining table. The angled window offered a view of the distillery, and from the kitchen’s window, far in the distance, the edge of a thick forest fixed the horizon.

On the far end, rows of books covered the wall from top to bottom, leaving only enough space for a framed glass cabinet. Inside it, I counted ten bottles of spirits which got older the higher the shelves went.

Heimee entered the room before I could finish my inspection. He pointed to the shoe prints on the red-tiled floor and gave me a miffed stare. “Thought I told you to take off your shoes.”

“Sorry, I got distracted,” I said, pulling off the shoes. “I’ll clean it up.”

He nodded in acknowledgement then said, “Well, I’m soon going to get some rest. Your bedroom is upstairs—left door.”

I followed his stare to the a metal spiral staircase, at least a thousand years old, at the end of the room which led to two short doors above.

With but a couple of steps, Heimee reached the cabinet and took out an odd bottle. The label said Heims 15, single malt. At first glance, it reminded me of apple juice, but it behaved differently, thicker somehow. “Finally,” he said.

He rummaged around the cabinet and produced a thumbglass, hopped to the kitchen to get a small terracotta pitcher, then popped the cork as he sat heavily on the wicker couch, filling his glass ceremoniously. He added a few drops of fresh water from the pitcher, and swirled the glass before sniffing it like someone smelling their lover’s hair. Then he sipped it gently, relaxed, digging his back into the wicker, and let out a prolonged sigh.

“Is that whisky?”

“No, it’s peach tea. Of course, it’s whisky.”

I regarded the cabinet again. With each shelf, the numbers on the bottles went up until my eyes landed on two modest square bottles. “Heims 39,” I mumbled. “Why not drink that one?”

Heimee chuckled. “I wouldn’t dare. Too expensive.”

“But you made them, no? Can’t you always make more?”

Heimee’s eyes narrowed. “That number represents how many years the spirit matured in casks. I only produce a dozen bottles or less a year, depending on the Bastard’s share. I keep them as insurance. You never know when you might need an expensive favor or an expensive friend.”

39 years? That was insane. That brown liquid was older than me fourfold.

“If you’re thinking about stealing them, know that the whole country will be after you. Maybe a foreign nation or two as well.”

“I wasn’t,” I said defensively, though the thought had occurred to me. “Why stop at 39? Why not forty?”

“That’s the age my wife was when the Bastard took her from me. No whisky of mine shall outlive her.”

I drooped. I couldn’t handle hearing about losses. Mercifully, Heimee continued, “Care for a sip?”

“Can I?” I’d always wanted to try Dad’s spirits. They looked yummy, but Mom and Dad always insisted I was too young.

He extended the thumbglass. I took it, swirling the liquid as Heimee had, noticing the trails it left on the glass like loose syrup. Would it be sweet? Candy-like? Or mellow like tea? I leaned my nose and took a whiff. My nostrils burned like I’d breathed the fumes above a campfire, and tears welled in my eyes—my curiosity lay brutally murdered. But I didn’t want to disappoint Heimee, who watched me intently. Every instinct warned me not to drink it. But once the burning sensation eased, it left hints of sweet apple biscuits and nutty woods. Those are good smells, right?

I took a sip.

Hot embers and dish soap cauterized my tongue, cheeks, and throat in one go. I both gagged and gasped at the same time. It took all my strength not to be sick, hand plugging my mouth. I coughed through my fingers as my eyes tried to escape my face—the liquid rampaging across my inners, forcing me to curl.

Heimee took the glass from my hand before I dropped it. “Good stuff,” he signed.

“People pay money for this?”

“Much money.” Heimee smiled widely. “You’re a tough kid; I’ll grant you that. I’m afraid whisky is an acquired taste and one not suitable for your age. Now, don’t forget the floor.”

I cleaned the floor and went upstairs, feet wobbling with each step, my gut still tingling, and left Heimee to make love to his cup of acid in privacy. The room was small, and the ceiling was low. It contained a single unmade bed, a tiny chest of drawers, and an even smaller bookshelf. I browsed the books. The History of Aviz and Algirin—that could be interesting. The Secrets of Ancient Casks. Tales of Salamorin and the Great White Aramaz. No way! A Salamorin book? Score! The Light of the Wild. And Great Scotch: Steep, Peat, Distill. I guess I was lucky not all of them were about whisky, and I vaguely wondered if all the books downstairs were. But that didn’t matter because I was about to read the Tales of Salamorin.

I grabbed the book and sat in bed. Oh, it was severely comfortable. From that angle, the slanted ceiling seemed like it could crash down on me at any moment, and the crooked diamond window, revealing the day’s end, threatened to fall off at a moments’ notice.

I opened the book, and the walls began closing in on me. Dad used to read me Salamorin’s tales come bedtime. At least a year had gone by since the mountain took him, and I missed him so much. So damned much. Him, Mom. I missed—

I balled my fists and gritted my teeth. Somewhere beyond that bedroom, there was a mountain I had to find. But first, I had to grow stronger. Taller would be a plus. And I had to wait for the right time. It’d be foolish to face the shattered mountains unprepared again. Meanwhile, what could be the harm in helping Heimee? I owed him, did I not? Besides, how hard could making such a vile beverage be?