Two weeks passed, and I was no closer to finding my mother's soul. The rift in the basement and the repurposed monkeys were pulling in fragments of memory, but... they were drawing at random from every arrogant thought to ever cross the mind of all dead beings in history. It was hardly a surprise that I hadn't found what I was looking for.

Witch Aimes was pleased, though, if her reactions to the weekly project check-ins were anything to speak of. The project was hardly more than a proof-of-concept at this stage, but Witch Aimes claimed it was progressing remarkably quickly for a theoretical witchcraft project run by a first-year.

That was because of the demon in my dreams giving me academic advice, not because of any prodigal talent I possessed, but I didn't see any reason to let Witch Aimes know that. I didn't want to find myself on the wrong end of her memory-spear, after all.

"It's nice to see some actual academic research still going on here," Witch Aimes mused, looking over the reams of data the monkeys had collected. "It's theoretically possible that this data could give us something useful for the war, of course, but we can't just drop everything and focus solely on results over theory. That's robbing tomorrow's progress for today's shortsighted gain."

Any other time, I would have loved to hear Witch Aimes' take on academic integrity—wait, no, I got that backwards. Any other time, I would have tuned out Witch Aimes' take on academic integrity, and this was no exception. "But are we getting anything coherent out of it? Any memories?"

Witch Aimes shrugged. "Sure. Plenty of memories. This pattern—" She tapped on a crude drawing of what looked like a petal, where we'd switched the monkeys to painting. "It's a perfect match for an immature calmflower."

"We got a memory of a flower," I repeated.

"In only two weeks!" Witch Aimes agreed.

I clenched my fists. "What about something that gets me closer to finding my mother?"

Witch Aimes blinked at me. "I... beg your pardon?"

"The whole reason I started this damn project is because I need to know..." Something in me instinctively clamped down, and I held back. "I need to know what was on my mother's mind when she died," I whispered.

A flicker of sympathy darted over Witch Aimes' face. "I'm sorry for your loss," she automatically said. "But the only reason you have funding at all is the potential for weaponizing your research against Odin. As noble a goal as giving you closure might be, I can't convince the Silent Parliament to allocate funds to bringing back an echo of some boy's dead mother when they could be raising an army to prevent the deaths of thousands more."

I closed my eyes. "I understand," I said. "You won't help me."

"We're all helping out to take down Odin," she said. "Now, tell me about the data you collected on day twelve..."

###

"Yes," Odin said. "I can help."

I paused mid-rant, swiveling towards them. I'd gotten better at moving around in soulspace, even if I still had to actively concentrate to do it. "What did you say?"

Odin shrugged. "You want to find a fragment of your mother's soul. I've been spending the past two weeks and considerable resources doing exactly that."

"You found a soul fragment?" I darted forwards, grabbing them by the shoulders. If the ancient demon was bothered by my treatment, they didn't show it.

"Technically, I found three," Odin said, "but two of them are located in parts of thoughtspace inimical to human life. You would be incinerated or frozen in the planes of passion or sorrow." That tracked—the planes of elemental heat and cold would... likely be unpleasant places to go searching for memories of a long-dead mother.

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"Then..." My stomach dropped. "Where is the third?" I waited for them to demand their price. Waited for them to force me to refuse. Because despite everything they'd done for me, Odin had already wrought death and destruction on a scale I hadn't seen since my childhood, and their reach would only get so much worse if they knew how to create witches on demand.

"It is located in the plane of insecurity," Odin calmly said.

I blinked. "I—what?"

"Also known as the plane of elemental falsehood," Odin helpfully clarified.

"No, that's not what—you're just giving it to me?"

Odin tilted their head. "I don't have the soul fragment on me, if that's what you're asking. The spell I have in mind will piggyback on the resonance between your memories of your mother and—"

"That's not what I'm asking," I snapped. "You're not... you're not demanding..." They weren't demanding the one thing I couldn't give up. They... they weren't asking anything at all.

"Why would I resort to demands? It's an inelegant way of enforcing my will." Odin raised an eyebrow. "I could send you there now, if you so desired. The plane of elemental falsehood is... uncanny, but it is one of the relatively few emotional planes which is perfectly safe for human life for short periods of stay. As long as you don't do anything entirely idiotic, that is."

Something in me still screamed to say no. To refuse the literal deal with a demon.

But I needed to know. I needed to know if she'd died hating herself because of me.

I held out a hand. "Do it," I said, before I could change my mind.

Odin.

Grinned.

They took my hand, and my soulspace dissolved into wakefulness.

###

The nursery rhyme was nameless, as most such rhymes were. It hovered on the edge of childhood memory and half-remembered dream, wavering as it sang through the glossy-sheened halls.

Tick... tock... goes... the clock... and now, what shall we play?

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sat up, back aching from lying on the painted wooden bed. Where... where was I?

Tick... tock... goes... the clock... now summer's gone away.

The room was dim and uncannily familiar, a bizarre mirror image of my rental room. I tried opening the door—it felt far too light to be made out of wood—and stepped into the creaking hallway.

"Hello?" I called.

Tick... tock... goes... the clock... I'll bring you back to me...

Though the hallway had more doors than anyone could count, the song was only coming from behind one of them. Instinctively and unerringly, I stepped forwards, trying to open the door—but it was nothing more than cheap paint on a wall, a facade as thin as a wish.

Tick... tock... goes... the clock... and I will set you free...

I knew that voice. I needed that voice. Hearing it on the other side of the wall was like a fishhook driven through my chest, inexorably tugging me forwards. I looked around for a way through, but even if I was the size of an ant, there wasn't the slightest crack in the smooth, oily wall.

But it was only a facade.

I took one step back, two, then hurled myself forwards, slamming through the painted door. It snapped instead of splintered, whatever material it was made of clearly not wood, revealing the... entity... on the other side.

The doll was the size of a human child, its too-wide eyes and cherubic blush contrasting with the distressingly fleshy lips and obscenely realistic teeth. Beneath its shoulders, even the attempts at seeming lifelike ended, a metallic, ticking skeleton of gears and springs whirring away, all powered by a humming, glowing box.

It sang with my mother's voice.

Tick... tock... goes... the clock... now, go to sleep, my child...

Tick... tock... goes... the clock... and let... your dreams... run wild...

"Mom?" I whispered, throat tightening.

The doll's head swiveled towards me, and I screamed.

It stood with uncannily fluid speed and unhinged its jaw and nope nope nope I wasn't staying around to find out what happened next. From what I understood of thoughtspace, my physical body had been moved from realspace to here; if I died, it was lights out for me. I was already sprinting back down the hallway as its distorted singing chased me:

Tick, tock, goes the clock, the song draws to an end.

Tick, tock, goes the clock, forever we'll be friends.

It was catching up. Oh, rifts, it was catching up. The floor quavered beneath my feet as I ran—

Quavered beneath my feet.

This entire place was a facade. Painted doors, paper-thin walls...

...and a floor so thin it shook when I stepped on it.

Desperately, I turned to face the oncoming demon. Its lips—my mother's lips—twisted up into a grin as I stopped—

I stomped as hard as I could on the floor, and the demonic doll fell into an abyss of clockwork and gears.

Somewhere very, very far down, two massive gears ground up the demon with a spark.

I stood there on the teetering edge of the chasm, catching my breath.

And then a wisp of light rose from the void.

Even in death, it still mournfully sang—but now, the brassy, twisted tones of the demon's body had faded, leaving me with the voice of my mother as I knew her when I was still a child.

Tick, tock, goes the clock, and though the time may fly...

Tick, tock, goes the clock, we're family, you and I.

"Mom," I breathed, and it was as much prayer as joy.

The soul fragment twinkled in the air, uncertain.

Then I reached out and let it in.