It sets itself down. Gently. The way I would set it down if I were holding it.
I stare at the paper. The pen sits there. Ordinary. Resting on a line of ink I wrote ten seconds ago.
It lifts again. Higher this time. Three inches. Four. It hangs in the air between me and the lamp and turns end over end in a slow, deliberate arc.
There is no threat in this room. No enemy. No combat. And the pen moved anyway.
The power is not answering my command. It’s answering something else.
It descends. Places itself on the page. Perfectly aligned with the last word I wrote, as though it’s waiting for me to continue.
I close the notebook. My hand is steady. The rest of me is not.
I look up.
Celeste is in the doorway. She’s watching my face.
“How long have you been standing there?”
The question comes out sharper than I intended. Because the pen was in the air thirty seconds ago, and if she saw it, the conversation I’m not ready to have just became the conversation happening now.
“Long enough,” she says.
The silence between us holds for three beats. She doesn’t ask about the pen. She doesn’t look at the desk. She looks at me.
She walks to the desk. She picks up the whiskey decanter and pours two glasses. Hands me one. Sits in the chair across from me.
She sips. Sets the glass down.
“Simone’s still in the wing.”
“I know.”
“She’s right, Maximus. We should have hit all three.”
“We didn’t have the assets.”
“She doesn’t care about the assets. She cares about the people in the cots we didn’t reach.” She looks at me. “I made her a promise.”
“I’m going to keep it. Every farm. All at once. Whatever it takes to find the new locations.”
She studies me.
“You’re carrying something,” she says.
My hand tightens on the glass.
“Can you tell me?”
“I will. When I have a word for it.”
She watches my face. Waits.
She stands. She crosses to my side of the desk.
“I’m going to trust you,” she says. “Trust that you’ll keep the promise. And I’m going to tell you what it costs me if you don’t.”
“Tell me.”
