Free Machine by K.Z. Snow Page B

had said about his beloved, Will’s mother, who’d suffered from a variation of the same disease?
    With a heavy heart, Will made his way to Mrs. Scrubb’s boardinghouse in the thin and dreary early-morning light. November, he’d always thought, was a mean miser indeed, as often as it withheld the optimistic glow and warmth of Old Sol. How he needed some sunshine today… and how Fan must have needed it!
    In part to distract himself, he kept his eyes peeled both for the Spiritorium and for Ulney Rumpiton, but he saw neither.
    All of Taintwell seemed lethargic. Fallen leaves, unswept, gathered in shop entrances. Few wagons trundled down the dirt streets. Neighbors didn’t call from yard to yard, and children shuffled rather than scampered toward the redbrick schoolhouse on Bellringer Lane. In spite of last night’s drizzle, the village smelled as dry and musty as an attic… and felt as void of vitality.
    Or maybe Will was seeing Taintwell through the smudged lens of his own mood.
    Why can’t I be a man about this? he thought peevishly, even while he worried about Fan, longed for Fan. Why can’t I adopt a more phlegmatic attitude? There’s nothing else I can do. As he turned onto Chitter Place, he caught of whiff of fresh bakery from the shop on the corner. For a bright, fleeting instant he felt the urge to stop there, to buy a few things for his and Fan’s supper and tomorrow’s breakfast. Then the boardinghouse came into view, jolting Will back to the reason for his outing. His love affair with Fan had shaped the track of his life and his thoughts more than he’d realized.
    Suddenly his eyes began to sting. He blinked, annoyed with himself. Weakness wouldn’t do.
    Pull yourself together. Get settled into your room and then work out a plan.
    As Will parked his OMT in an empty lot beside the pink clapboard building, he wondered how many other boarders were housed there. He didn’t feel very sociable and recoiled from the thought of communal breakfasts and suppers. Anticipating his lonely nights was even worse.
    Perhaps, he thought, he should start keeping a journal. Recording what had happened thus far, as well as his thoughts and feelings, would fill his empty evenings while lightening the load on his spirit.
    A woman sat in a rocking chair on the long porch. Yissi Sweetgrass, Will thought—a pretty blonde slip of a thing who rather reminded him of a faerie. Was she employed by Mrs. Scrubb? She didn’t appear very energetic, in fact seemed sluggish and vacant.
    Smiling, he mounted the porch and, tipping his hat, nodded her way. “Good morning.”
    As close as Will was to her, Yissi didn’t acknowledge his greeting, didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Instead she seemed to be gazing at the porch rail, a detached wisp of a smile on her face. Will knew she wasn’t deaf and blind and so couldn’t account for her behavior. She’d never ignored him before.
    “You’re Miss Sweetgrass, aren’t you?” he said.
    Still no response.
    “Well, enjoy your day.” Without making any more attempts to secure her attention, Will entered the house. A bell tinkled, as if making up for Yissi’s rudeness by welcoming him. He stood for a moment in the entry and looked around.
    To his left, on the other side of the stairway, spread a large parlor with double doors, a sizable fireplace, bookshelves, and a clutter of furniture covered in runners, doilies, and other fancywork. It must have been for the lodgers’ use. On his right, Will spied a kind of sitting room with papered walls, the far end of which was blocked from sight by a line of folding screens. He didn’t see Mrs. Scrubb, but she soon emerged from a room at the end of the central hallway. The widow smiled as she wiped her wet hands on her apron.
    “Mr. Marchman! How nice to see you again.” She turned into the sitting room. “Come, and we’ll get you signed in.”
    Will paused, bewildered. How could she know he was here as a guest? He asked Mrs. Scrubb