Devotion.
That was what she felt strongest. This man was devoted to his task because he felt inspired and moved.
The scene shifted, jumping forward in time like a fast-forwarded movie. Now the figurine was nearly complete, needing only the finer details. The carver set down his tools and reached for something on a high shelf—another figurine wrapped in soft cloth.
When he carefully unwrapped it, Fenella's breath caught in her throat—or would have, if she'd been in control of the body she was experiencing this through.
This was the master figurine he was copying, and it was exquisite. Where the copy was merely beautiful, this was transcendent. The stone seemed to glow with an inner light that had nothing to do with the shafts of sunshine filtering through the workshop window. Every line, every curve spoke of an artist who had captured more than just the likeness of Annani but also some of her essence.
The carver handled it with the reverence one might show a holy relic. His thoughts were a jumble of awe and longing, though for what, Fenella couldn't quite grasp. He studied the original carefully, comparing it to his own work, and she felt his frustration at his inability to capture that ineffable quality that made the original so extraordinary.
But he was close.
The workshop door opened, and a woman entered—his wife, Fenella understood through the warm rush of affection that colored the carver's thoughts. She said something in that unknown language, her tone gently chiding. The carver responded with words Fenella couldn't understand but a tone she recognized—the universal sound of a husband promising he'd be done soon, just a few more minutes.
The woman approached, bringing with her the scent of baked goods. She looked at both figurines, the original and the copy, and even through the carver's eyes, Fenella could see her expression soften with wonder. She reached out as if to touch the original, then pulled her hand back, clearly thinking better of it.
More words were exchanged, and then the woman left, but not before pressing a kiss to the carver's weathered cheek.
Alone again, he returned his attention to the figurines, the original and the copy he was making.
Putting the copy on his worktable, he lifted the original, turning it over in his hands to examine it from every angle, and as he did, the bottom came into view. There, carved into the base in tiny, precise characters, was an inscription.
The script was unfamiliar—not quite pictographic but not alphabetic either. The symbols seemed to flow into each other, creating a pattern that was both artistic and functional. Fenella forced herself to focus, to memorize every line, every curve, every minute detail of the inscription.
The carver ran his thumb over it, and through his touch, Fenella felt something. A resonance, as if the carved symbols themselves held their own memories. The carver must have felt it too because his hands trembled slightly before he carefully set the figurine down.
The vision jumped forward again. Now the workshop was busier, with children helping to clean and wrap various carved items, preparing them for sale. The copy of Annani's figurine sat on a special shelf, complete and painted in bright colors, and in his hand was another copy he was working on. The carver would look at it sometimes with an expression of mingled pride and dissatisfaction. He'd come close to capturing the original's beauty, but he still wasn't happy with the result.
Days blended into one another in that strange, compressed way of memory. Fenella saw glimpses of the carver's life and the steady rhythm of his work. Always, the original figurine remained wrapped and hidden, brought out only when he needed to reference it for some detail or simply to marvel at itsperfection, and the first copy he'd made sat on the worktable, serving as the model for many more just like it.
None achieved the perfection of the original, though, which frustrated the carver to no end.
She wanted to tell him that perfectionism was a horrible trait that led to nothing but misery, but the connection between them flowed in just one direction. Besides, the man was long gone, probably spending many years trying to reach the perfection of the original and never quite making it.
On occasion, he would take out the original just to look at it, to run his fingers over that inscription at the base, and each time he did, Fenella paid attention, committing the image of those symbols into her memory.
The workshop was filled with other pieces—wooden carvings mostly that weren't as intricate, practical items and decorative ones alike. The carver's wife and children would take them to sell at the market, returning with coins and supplies.
It was a decent life, filled with the small joys of family, but always, the carver's thoughts would return to the original figurine and the mystery it represented. Who had carved it?
How had he captured such ethereal beauty in stone?
The vision began to fade, the workshop growing dimmer, the sensory details becoming less distinct. Fenella tried to hold on, to glean just a bit more information, but it was like trying to grasp smoke.
Then she was back in her own body, sitting on Kalugal's sofa with her eyes closed and her hand clasped around the figurine. The transition was jarring—from the dry heat of the workshopto the climate-controlled comfort of the underground mansion, from the scent of stone dust to the lingering aroma of Atzil's cooking.
Fenella opened her eyes, blinking against the sudden brightness. Her head spun slightly, and she felt a little disoriented. This time, however, she felt energized instead of drained.
"Oh, wow. This was incredible," she said. "I was actually there, with all of the sensory input. I felt the heat, I smelled the wood and the stone and even the carver's own sweat."
"Gross," Jasmine murmured. "I could have done without that input."
"You felt it too?" Fenella asked.
Jasmine nodded, and so did Kyra.
"Did you see the inscription?" she asked, looking between Kyra and Jasmine. "The carving on the bottom of the original figurine?"
