“Is the stone... matchmaking?” I ask.
“The stone is trying to save everyone from whatever happens when the worlds fully merge.”
“What happens?”
“Nobody knows! 1847 was before my time. But based on Keith, I’m guessing corporate shadow takeover.”
“We’ve tried the synchronization?—”
“You’ve tried nothing!” the stone bellows. “Your first attempt was a joke. You can’t synchronize if you can’t even have a conversation without deflecting.”
The stone starts humming louder.
“Please stop,” we say in unison.
“Then practice. Here. Now. With me as witness.”
“In the creepy basement?”
“The creepy basement where you can’t overthink because you’re too worried about spiders.”
I am worried about spiders now.
“Fine,” I say. “But if this fails?—”
“It won’t fail if you stop thinking it will fail. Also, Carl’s outside the door. He wants to watch.”
I turn. Carl is indeed there, holding a sign: “CARL SUPPORTS TRUST EXERCISES.”
“Hi Carl,” I say weakly.
Carl waves enthusiastically.
“We’re all going insane, aren’t we?” I ask.
“Probably,” Stenrik says. “But at least the symptoms are interesting.”
“Interesting. Right. My life motto: at least the unprecedented consequences are interesting.”
The stone switches to “Sexual Healing.”
“Too much?” it asks.
“Way too much,” we confirm.
STENRIK
The foundation stone’s trust exercise ended with Rianne declaring stones should not be allowed to give relationship advice, and Carl nodding in solemn agreement. We retreated upstairs before the stone could start another Marvin Gaye song.
Rianne has fallen asleep at the circulation desk, her head pillowed on the Chronicle. Her small predator sits on her back, purring at a frequency that suggests either contentment or plans for murder.
Keith’s presentation finally ended an hour ago. Now, he directs several shadows as they clean the conference room.
I should rest. The ceremony will require significant energy. But someone must maintain watch.
I pull the Chronicle from beneath Rianne’s head, replacing it with a pillow from the children’s reading corner. She mumbles something about “spreadsheets of doom” and curls into it. The Chronicle’s pages flip on their own, revealing text that shifts and reforms. The permanent bond passages are clearer now, more insistent.
After a while, Rianne stands, rolling her shoulders. “I need food. Real food. Not expired cheese balls.”
