Right around dawn, shifting from the kitchen behind her alerted Jo to the presence of someone else. She shifted in her chair, poking her nose around the side to see what other ghost was lurking about in what had become an unofficial “quiet time” for the members of the Society.
Samson didn’t seem to notice her at all, which gave Jo an opportunity to observe him. His motions had a fluidity that reminded Jo strangely of Eslar. It was a sort of grace Jo could only dream of mustering, and beyond the most virtuoso ballerina she’d ever seen. There was something that lookedmagicin the way he simply existed that no one else could seem to command.
He appeared to be busying himself with a few ingredients from the fridge, and unlike his usual demeanor, he was doing so with an easy confidence, his back and shoulders free from tension. His brown hands moved with delicate precision, and Jo was instantly reminded of the fact that she’d never actually seen the craftsman’s magic at work. She could only assume it was an impressive sight to behold, given how nearly everything else about him was.
She realized then, watching him go about fixing himself an early morning snack, that out of everyone on the team, she knew the least about Samson. Beyond his position as the crafter and his five-star cooking, Jo hadn’t interacted with him much, and her questions surrounding him and his origins were plenty. Rivaled only by her questions surrounding Pan, perhaps.
Before she could announce her presence to the easily startled enigma, Samson turned (as if sensing being watched) and looked directly at her. As expected, he seemed momentarily stunned, maybe even frightened, and nearly dropped his plate. Jo was quick to scramble from her chair, rushing to his aid. Samson barely caught one end of the dish, holding it shakily. Out of breath from the quick sprint, Jo held the other side firmly for a moment.
“Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to scare you.” At this proximity, she could see the flecks of gold in his wide-set eyes. Guilty for startling him and then encroaching on his space, she let go of the plate. As if by magic, his hold was now far sturdier.
“It’s all right,” he replied, though not without slouching a bit and looking quickly away from her face. “I usually don’t find others here at this hour. Well, maybe Eslar, but not today it seems.”
“Yeah, we all kind of hide away at night, don’t we?” Jo chuckled, though it was mostly humorless, dying off quickly and replacing itself with an awkward though not uncomfortable silence. Samson seemed no more interested in striking up conversation, so eventually Jo cleared her throat and tried again by using the plate as her inspiration. “Making some breakfast?”
For a beat, Samson seemed almost confused by the question, but then he glanced from her face to his plate and recognition filled his eyes. “Oh, no. This is for later. Maybe I will want to snack then, maybe not. Making food, eating food, just. . . food helps me think, and I intend to spend the entirety of today, if not longer, working on the machine.”
An idea struck Jo at the words, and while part of her thought it might be overstepping, especially with Samson’s obvious preference for solitude, she rolled with it. Finding excuses to spend time with Samson outside of the kitchen had been near impossible so far, and he certainly didn’t offer any opportunities of his own volition. Jo wouldn’t let the present chance to learn more about her teammate and friend pass her up, especially now that her part of the wish was once again complete. The idea of simply sitting around twiddling her thumbs or re-reading the passages of Eslar’s book while she waited had the potential to drive her mad.
“Would you like some help?” Samson merely blinked, so she added, “With the seismograph, I mean. I can hand you tools or something. I don’t actually know how your crafting magic works, but if you need a second set of hands. . .” Her voice trailed off at his expression. Samson continued to stare at her for a long moment, face open and surprised. In fact, he stared long enough that Jo began to feel a little self-conscious about her offer. “You don’t have to say yes if you would rather work alone, I just figured I’d—”
“Yes!” Samson cut her off, the word escaping him a lot louder than Jo was used to hearing from the soft-spoken man. When he realized his outburst, he slouched into himself again, a rosy blush spreading across his face. “Yes, please. I would appreciate the help.”
Which was how, for the first time, Jo found herself in Samson’s room.
Like most other rooms in the mansion, it was a mash-up of different aesthetics that Jo would usually presume to conflict, yet somehow, went together. Wide, rustic-looking beams that reminded her of an old-timey cabin stretched across the roof. Their dark stain was offset by the plastered and whitewashed ceiling and walls. Over the cement floor, various pelts had been thrown, and atop them long steel worktables stretched the length of the rectangular room. The whole left side seemed practically littered with tinkering tools on open counter space; the phrase “organized chaos” came to mind.
Despite the slight messiness and industrial notes clashing with natural, however, the whole room felt incredibly warm and welcoming, cozy in a way that only a properly lived in and well-loved place could be. Even the view beyond the paned window over the counters on the left was soothing. The glass was slightly frosted at the corners and looked out over high snow drifts.
Curiously, there was a secondary door on the right wall; Jo’s room only boasted one entry and exit.
“What’s in there? Storage?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.
“Oh, that. . .” He trailed off as he wandered toward the door. For a brief moment, Jo worried she was asking about something personal. She was grateful just to be in his space at all; she shouldn’t pry. But her concerns proved unfounded as he stopped, suddenly turning, head bowed and picking at his nails. “It’s my room.”
Duh. There was no bed, no personal items in the workshop.
“Would you like to see it?”
“What?” The question came out purely in surprise, but Samson’s shoulders seemed to droop further. “No, I mean, yes.” Jo took a breath and gave him a big smile as his head rose timidly. “I don’t want to invade your space, but I’d love to see it if you want to show me.”
Relief overtook him, and Samson quickly opened the door, ushering her over to look inside.
Jo hovered in the doorframe. The truth was, there wasn’t much room for her to go any further. Her original suspicion of a storage closet wasn’t far off. A narrow bed took up the entire wall to the right, the door opening against it if pushed too wide. To the left was a hearth, crackling and warming more furs and blankets piled over a small but comfortable-looking chair.
A shelf was directly at her left, piled with books and other trinkets—some she recognized from Samson’s fidgeting. Across from that was a narrow work table, the chair before the hearth seeming to serve a dual purpose depending on where its owner wanted to sit more. There, an array of feathers and shafts of wood were piled; a quiver hung on the wall above.
“Arrows?” Jo asked, daring to taking a step in as Samson moved aside.
“Yes.” He focused entirely on the quiver as well, speaking more to it than her. “I was a fletcher, in the Age of Magic.”
“A fletcher? Someone who makes arrows?”
“And bows.” Samson nodded, walking over hastily. “I would do quivers too. Sometimes even leathers or chainmail. I had a small smithy where I could make the heads too. Look.” He pulled open a drawer, pulling out a small point of lead and twirling it between two fingers. “This one was my favorite.”
“It’s very lovely.” She made a show of inspecting the arrowhead. Jo didn’t know the first thing about archery, but she did know when someone was proud of their work and she didn’t want to discourage him by not showing enough excitement. “And deadly-looking,” she added, not knowing which was a better compliment for such a thing.
A dusting of rose covered his cheeks and Samson quickly looked down, stashing it back into the drawer. “Then there’s—”
