Free The End of Time by P. W. Catanese, David Ho

of the great vine responded. It slid into one of the glass-and-iron wings. A moment later it returned, its tip wrapped around a dark ceramic pot with a bushy plant inside. The vine passed the plant into Fendofel’s waiting hands, and he held it out to Umber.
    “Looks like mint,” Umber said, taking the pot.
    “It is elatia ,” Fendofel said, pronouncing the name with care. “This might cure your episodes of sadness, my friend.”
    Hap looked at the others. Sophie had a delighted, openmouthed smile, and Balfour’s eyebrows had gone halfway up his forehead. “How wonderful that would be,” Balfour whispered. Sophie nodded.
    Umber’s gaze was fixed on the plant. He brushed the leaves with the tips of his fingers. “Will it really?”
    Fendofel nodded and chuckled. “It took all my craft to create it. Listen carefully, now, Umber: If you feel one of your bouts coming on, pluck seventeen leaves and make a tea of them. Boil it until the leaves turn black.”
    “Until the leaves turn black. Seventeen,” Umber said. He looked at Balfour and raised his brow. “Seventeen,” Balfour repeated.
    Umber placed the elatia on the bench beside him. “What a gift, Fendofel! And all I can offer you in return is a mystery.”
    Fendofel laughed, and the laugh turned into a cough that went on until the old man was out of breath. Umber put a hand on his back, and one of Dendra’s vines twirled tenderly around the old wizard’s calf. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Fendofel said, waving a hand and wheezing. “What is your mystery, Umber?”
    Umber fetched the pack that Oates had left on the floor. He dug out the skull-size object, still wrapped in canvas, and sat again with the thing in his lap. “I want to know if you’ve ever seen anything like this,” Umber said. He threw off the canvas flaps, revealing the enormous nut. “Careful of the thorns.”
    Fendofel leaned close, narrowing one eye and widening the other. “What have you found?” he whispered. Umber raised the nut, nested on the thick cloth, and Fendofel slid his hands under the thing, hefted it with care, and set it down again on the bench. He stuck his fingers between the thorns and prodded; he put his nose as close as he dared, inhaling deeply; he scratched his chin and tugged his ear. “I . . . I feel like I’ve seen this before. Knew what it was . . . long ago.” He looked mournfully at Umber. “But I can’t recall.”
    “Is it magical, you think?” Umber asked.
    Fendofel concentrated, and Hap could see the frustration growing on his face. His nose wrinkled, and his mouth twisted. He tapped himself on the head—softly first, and then much harder—“Curse me. Umber, my memory isn’t what it used to be.” He looked up at Hap. “You must think I’m an old fool, Master . . .” He grunted as he struggled to remember.
    “Happenstance,” Hap told him gently.
    “Ah,” Fendofel said. His shoulders slumped. “Yes. Happenstance. I’d have gotten it if you hadn’t said it.”
    “Don’t worry about it, Fendofel,” Umber said. “Tell me, though. What do you think I should do with this thing?”
    Fendofel looked at the nut again, prodding the tip of a thorn with his thumb. “Where did it come from?”
    “It was with some stuff my former archivist stole from me. I guess he thought it was valuable. Unfortunately he’s dead now, so I can’t ask him where he found it. Who knows? Maybe it was somewhere in the Aerie.”
    “Looks awfully old,” Fendofel said. “Might not even grow if you planted it.”
    “Is it worth a try?”
    Fendofel narrowed his eyes at the thing. “Not sure. Something about it . . . worries me. Wish I could remember. Perhaps in the morning I shall. You will stay the night, won’t you all?”
    Umber bit his bottom lip. “I’m sorry, Fendofel. We can’t stay for long. But I’ll come back soon.”
    “I understand,” Fendofel said, lowering his eyes.
    “Fendofel,” Umber said, with his fingertips on the old wizard’s