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 open.
Zachary’s suspicions that he wasn’t actually traveling anywhere were unfounded, as the room he is looking out toward is not the cave-like space he started in. This is a luminous room with a curved paneled ceiling. It reminds him of the atrium from the university library but smaller, with honey-colored marble walls, opaque and varied in tone, but translucent and glowing, covering everything except for the stone floor and the elevator and another door on the other side of the room. He suspects he actually is as far underground as the length and speed of the elevator ride suggested, even though the voice in his head keeps insisting that such things are impossible. It is too quiet. There is a heaviness in the air, the feel of weight above him.
Zachary steps out of the elevator and the doors close behind him. The clanking sound resumes, the elevator returning to somewhere else. Above its doors is a half-moon indicator with no numbers, only a gold arrow moving slowly upward.
Zachary walks to the door on the other side of the room. It’s a large door with a golden doorknob that reminds him of his original painted door, only bigger, as though it has grown along with him, and this one is not painted but real carved wood, its gilded embellishments fading in places but the bee and the key and the sword remain distinct.
Zachary takes a breath and reaches for the doorknob. It is warm and solid and when he tries to turn it, it does not budge. He tries again, but the door is locked.
“Seriously?” he says aloud. He sighs and takes a step back. The door has a keyhole and, feeling silly about it, Zachary bends down to look through it. There is a room beyond, that much is obvious, but other than an irregular movement to the light, he cannot discern anything else.
Zachary sits on the floor, which is polished stone and not very comfortable. He can tell from this angle that the stone is worn down in the center of the doorway. Many people have walked here before him.
Wake up, the voice in his head says. You’re usually good at this sort of thing.
Zachary stands, leaving flakes of gold paint behind him, and goes to inspect the rest of the room.
There is a button near the elevator, half concealed in marble and whatever brassy metal the marble panels are connected with. Zachary pushes the button, not expecting a result, and gets precisely that. The button remains unlit, the elevator silent.