JO DIDN’T GO back to her room that night.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like her room. It was lovely, like a picture. But it was also a picture that reminded her of the one night she’d spent with Wayne. Furthermore, like a picture, it was something that had little use. There was a bed (for all the sleeping she couldn’t do), a desk area (pointless, given everywhere else in the mansion), the wall where she’d hung her painting from Nico (nice, but she didn’t spend hours staring at it), and a small computer (that she’d long since deemed insufficient compared to the recreation room).

So, instead, Jo returned to the seat by the pool she had begun to frequent. Eslar’s book from earlier was still there, waiting for her right where she’d left it. Small orbs strung along the entrance into the living and kitchen areas lit the patio with just enough light to read by. While her mind felt too mushy to really grasp any of the words that her eyes fell over, it was repetitive, mindless, and blissfully passed the time.

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 looked magic in 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—”

“What’s this?” She hadn’t intended to interrupt him, it just sort of happened. Jo lifted a finger, pointing at a single arrow in the quiver. Slightly taller than the rest, the feathers on its end seemed to shimmer with their own light; every time she shifted her eyes, they seemed to take on new colors in stark contrast to the pale, almost golden wood used on the shaft. “Did you make this—”

“Don’t touch it!” He grabbed her wrist and Jo felt the bones crunch. She tried not to wince, but may have failed, given how quickly Samson pulled away. He clearly didn’t know how much strength was in his hands. “Th-That was a gift. . . I think. . .” Samson had a staring contest with the arrow for a long moment as if waiting for it to confirm his suspicions, before turning and starting for the door. “We should get to work.”

“Yeah. . .” Jo mumbled, rubbing her wrist. She took one glance back at the quiver and its mysterious contents but quickly tried to put it from her mind. Judging from the way Samson acted, it must have something to do with the wish he’d made. Hadn’t Takako said that her wish now seemed hazy, too? With how long Samson had been in the Society, it would be no wonder that his recollection of the circumstances that had brought him there were faded.

Jo closed the door to his room behind her, determined to put it all far from her mind. She considered leaving briefly. But a stool had been pulled out next to where Samson was already beginning to lay out supplies. Jo accepted the unspoken invitation and settled herself down among the bits, baubles, and tools that lined the back wall. The plate of food he’d made was at her elbow (he must have set it down during her initial inspection of the place), still untouched.

Samson grabbed a work apron from a hook on the wall and gathered up tools and mismatched electronics, piling them at the center of the table. There was an air of preparation to what he was doing. His extreme focus pushed away the last of the awkwardness from the incident in his room and Jo let it fade as well. If he wasn’t letting it bother him, then she wouldn’t let it bother her. After several long minutes, Jo, intrigued, couldn’t help but get back to her feet and walk over for a closer look at what he was doing.

The man said nothing. Frankly, Jo would’ve put her money on him completely forgetting that she was even there. Samson looked over the accumulated items in front of him, hands flat on the table before him and eyes bouncing from item to item with an electric focus. When Jo got close to him, she felt it instantly—magic rolling off of him in waves. Then, with a quick breath, Samson got to work.

If she’d thought his motions had been precise in the kitchen, they were even more so now. He lifted scraps of metal, plastics, and silicones, turning them into amalgamations greater than the sum of their parts. The way he handled what had now been transformed into bits of electronics and rudimentary machinery seemed almost inhuman, robotic.

Jo couldn’t really comprehend what he was doing, tools and hands and magic working together to combine and transmute the items into something new, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away either. Magic was invisible. There was no glow, or spark, or thread tying it all together. Yet there was also a force that could almost be seen in the way it all moved and shifted.

She had never seen Samson so in his element before. He looked in control, confident—emanating a breathtaking sense of purpose and passion. Watching Samson create something from pieces of nothing until familiar shapes began to form was like watching an artist paint or a musician play. Slowly, Jo could see a framework being laid out. Surprisingly, the way she saw it was not with her own sensibilities of tech, but an intuition that came with the unique magic she’d been gifted with.

“Wait.”

His hands froze at her word and Jo swallowed the instant guilt that swelled at disturbing him.

“There’s. . .” She struggled to describe what she saw. It was an understanding in a language that only she could comprehend. Trying to fabricate it into common words that would be useful to him was a struggle. Luckily, Samson was no stranger to struggling for words, and he was a more-than-patient listener. “This here. If this connection gets wobbled too violently it could break.”

“But there wouldn’t be excess movement unless—” It dawned on him the same moment Jo thought to explain it herself.

“Unless someone tried to sabotage the experiment. Or a violent earthquake hit. Or Wayne was his usual clumsy self.”

He looked down, assessing what Jo had assumed to be the possible roadmap he’d been following. “Well, then, if I connect this like that. . .”

“No, it’s still weak here.” She leaned over him to point.

“Here, then.”

Jo’s magic fizzled between her ears. Her eyes scanned the board he was working on over and over again, until. . . “Yes, that’s secure.”

Samson leaned back with a smile of triumph. Then, in a flurry of sudden movement, he grabbed her hands. Jo leaned away, not because the contact was unwelcome, but because she’d never been touched by him so intently before. “Your magic is useful to me!”

Jo couldn’t stop the burst of laughter in both amusement at his statement and in relief that she truly hadn’t put him off by inquiring about his room. “I’m glad,” she said earnestly. Perhaps he’d just invited her for the company, but Jo was pleased that her ability to break things could also be of use to their crafter in reverse-engineering for failure.

“I have so many things I want to show you. . .” His eyes scanned the room.

“Let’s focus on this for now.” There wasn’t time to be distracted. “Then, later, I can take a look at whatever you want.”

Samson gave a nod and set back to work.

Jo continued to hover over his shoulder, pointing out potential errors the second her magic picked them up. It was like a duet perfectly balanced between someone born to build and another born to destroy. Without having ever realizing it before, they were a near-ideal counterbalance to each other.

Their magics playing off each other gave her an easy sort of air with Samson that Jo had never quite felt before and that bred confidence. Except. . . that wasn’t right, was it? Something in the back of her mind told Jo that she had felt it before. She knew this feeling even better, truer—different, with someone else. . . But why?

“So how long have you been a part of the Society?” Jo asked by way of distraction. Unlike her other interjections regarding their (now shared) project, Samson’s shoulders tensed this time, though his hands never stopped moving, fingers shifting elegantly over one of his tools. When he didn’t respond for a while, Jo frowned. “You don’t have to answer. I was just curious—you’d mentioned the Age of Magic before and I don’t quite understand all the timelines, not really. . . Sorry,” Jo mumbled, feeling guilty for prying yet again.

“I don’t mind,” Samson said, though his voice was tight and his eyes stayed pinned to his work. “It’s simply a. . . difficult question.”

Before Jo could tell him to ignore the question entirely, he went on.

“I was born in 1333, before the Age of Magic ended. As I said, I was a fletcher at the employ of a local duke. I made my wish when. . . well, I’ve been with the Society since the year 1354.”

“That’s. . . a long time,” Jo whispered lamely, mind rebelling against the possibility. Samson just chuckled, his hands coming to a momentary stop. He kept his eyes on his project, but they looked far away, witnessing a distant memory, maybe.

“It has been,” he said. “Though Eslar has been here for much longer.”

A strange look came across Samson’s face at the mention of the elf, a look that despite its openness, Jo couldn’t seem to define. It sparked another thought that she wasn’t sure she should voice, but once new information was within reach, Jo couldn’t help herself.

“You must have spent a lot of time together. In the beginning.”

At this, Samson couldn’t help glancing in her direction, eyes wide with surprise. After a few moments, however, his face softened, the ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. He turned to face her more completely, leaning against the table and turning his back to the project. It was the first thing in hours capable of taking his attention away from the device. His eyes held a sadness in them that Jo couldn’t fathom, and for the first time since meeting the awkward and kind man, she felt as though she could see just how old he truly was.

“Perhaps we would have, were it not for me. We were each other’s only companions for many years—save Pan and Snow,” he said eventually, crossing his arms over his chest, stopping the slight rattle that suddenly seemed to overtake his hands. “But time does not heal all wounds. Not even after hundreds of years. And I—my wish—did the unthinkable to him.”

Jo wanted to ask what he meant, she couldn’t imagine Samson hurting a fly, let alone someone like Eslar. But he’d already turned back to the table, the atmosphere in the room heavy with tension and the sudden, obvious desire for silence. This must have been why Wayne had cautioned her against asking about wishes all those months ago. Part of Jo wondered if she should leave, but she didn’t move. Jo continued to study what she now knew was the second oldest member of the Society (ignoring Pan and Snow, as most seemed to do on such topics).

“Jo?” Samson said her name just as she’d pushed away from the table. He continued his task, but motioned with his chin toward the side counter of tools. “Will you pass me my pliers? I think they’re somewhere by the screwdrivers. Then I’ll need you to look at this again with that magic of yours. I think I finally have it sorted.”

Jo blinked her own surprise, then found herself smiling. It felt like a peace offering, and even though she had more questions now than answers, she took it easily, handing him his pliers and settling back in to check his work.