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Edran wanted the clock fixed. “It ticks too loud,” he told Mara, and “It marks days we can’t tell.” He watched Ipro with a distrust sharpened by storms.
She set a box on his table that was cold to the touch. Inside was a machine with teeth like the ribs of a boat and a face pocked with tiny holes: a voice-keeper. It had been used by a theater where lovers left messages in plays and the audience would find their voices again. But the theater closed, and the voice-keeper had been stored, and with every season it grew thinner, hoarding voices until it spoke only in echoes. Olyth wanted the machine to hold a particular thing: a voice she could not afford to lose. It had been her daughter’s, and the girl had drowned the winter before crossing to the trading isles.