The last thing I saw was her hair, a cascade of black ink that dried in a fragment of a second. There was only air where she had been standing moments ago, and the fruity scent of her perfume was replaced with the fresh aroma of ozone. Lightning came after, and seconds later the silence of the world around me was made more evident as the thunder pierced the air and made my knees shake.
(She was here one moment and gone the next, leaving behind memories locked in place.)
The table where she was working was filled with trinkets; balance wheels, mainspring, and escapements in silver, pewter and iron. Sheets of parchment were stained with coffee and Pepper-Up potions and for the first time, I wondered if she had been working too hard, if there was too much pressure on her.
She had been young, and the most promising Trainee in a while, making changes and chasing down assumptions until she found the truth.
(She was here one moment and gone the next.)
Sand was falling from where her head had been, if I had to make a guess I'd say it fell from her eye. It seemed of the same hue as her amber-colored eyes, though hers were bright and open, and endlessly looking through many different tinted glasses to learn truths hidden in plain sight.
The sand kept falling, spiraling down with slow movements, pooling on the hard stone floor. Some explanation must come forth from the situation, but I didn't know what to do. My mind failed me in that moment and I kept looking at the sand.
(Leaving behind memories locked in place.)
I hired her. She had been working here because I told her to. I was her boss. I was her caretaker in this place full of esoteric knowledge and arcane magic. I had to bring her back, otherwise, the pain of my guilt would eat my innards and leave the rest of me like the carcass of those mechanical watches on her work table. Her notes were scrawled, but I noticed the theme of them. Time.
Everything made sense in an instant; the new room born from the center of the space room and brought here by the Deep Magic we don't understand. It was as if the magic itself wanted someone to come forth and study it; the poet writing a masterpiece to be known. We are the ink, and magic is the writer.
(She was there one moment and back the moment before, dancing an endless dance of tic and toc.)
The sand stopped falling. It glowed gold and green and it dulled to the same tan color it was before. Then it kept spiraling, upwards this time until all the sand on the floor was floating and disappearing into her eye.
Her hair was the first thing I saw, the ink of time spilling itself on the parchment of the world that can't see what really happens in the mind of the poet. She was smiling, and her teeth shone like the mother of pearl from a moon phase dial.
"Boss! You won't believe what happened!"
Her first words amused me, but the fear of her fate was still there. Her skin was dry like the sand I saw before, and her eyes were of the same gold as the mechanisms she had tweaked.
"I must warn you, it's highly likely that I will remember everything you say."
I told her that, sitting on the floor where the sand had pooled. She responded with laughter, magical like the pull of the moon over the tide.
"It's a long story, Boss. But now we have all the time in the world."
