Snow ✓

An Exchange

Seven Orbits Later

A phonograph was never brought to the docks of Myst, and it was no real disappointment—Captain Agatha's chance of stumbling across one had always been a near impossibility. What old man Elis hadn't anticipated was the lengths Mat would go to keep a promise.

It took the better part of a decade, but Mat finally obtained the next best thing, and it was all thanks to an old merchant with a hunched back and a milky eye named Magni, who overheard Mat asking around the traveling market one summer about a phonograph and wax cylinders.

"I'll do you one better," the merchant said, pointing a gnarled finger up at the sky as if accusing the clouds of a secret. "I have a collection of records from the Gone World—lightly used, the music crisp enough to make the songbirds jealous," he said behind his hand like Mat should be so lucky to hear it.

Mat took a weary step back. "Records?" The only records he had ever heard of were the accounts people kept of histories, experiments and casualties.

"Aye, like cylinders but flat and circular," he said waving his hands about in an unhelpful circular motion, "and they last longer!" His wrinkles quivered at Mat's bemused look. "Here, here," the merchant said and shuffled back to his table under which he grabbed parchment, ink and a quill.

Not one to be rude, Mat moseyed over and peered over the man's hunched frame, bent low over the parchment as he scribbled a contraption that looked very much like a phonograph, but in place of all the bits Mat recognized was a flat a box with a circular protrusion.

"See this?" the merchant said, pointing. "This is called a turntable. The flat disk on top, that's a record. You crank the handle and the turntable turns (true to its name!), the stylus drags on the record and voila, sound is made!" He pushed the parchment into Mat's hands.

His eyebrows pinched as he puzzled over the drawing. "Do you have it on hand?"

The man blinked up at Mat.

"The records, this contraption—can I see them?"

"Oh, no no no," he said shaking his head and hands. "I didn't lug them across the sea—"

Mat gave a pained sigh, shoved the parchment back at the man and kept walking.

"Wait!"

For every stride of Mat's the old merchant hobbled three quick steps.

"You have to understand," he said, already huffing and puffing. "I never thought I'd find a buyer for such a thing in a place like this, but now that I know such a lad exists, it's nothing but a quick trip back to Stolle."

Mat had never heard of Stolle, though he supposed that wasn't peculiar; surely, he had never heard of most places.

"What would you want for it?"

The old merchant looked Mat up and down, eyeing every hole and worn crease.

"What's in the bag?" he asked, looking to Mat's satchel.

"Figurines."

A pregnant pause. "Well, let's have a look," he said impatiently.

Mat worked his jaw, not eager to show him when all the Mystians he approached either laughed or crossed their chests as if warding off evil spirits. Every day it was the same, but he hauled them around because Snow wanted to help and he refused to make his telling her he toted them around a lie. So, he flipped the flap on his bag, took out the wooden box and showed the man the animal figurines. Mat awaited the insults as the man took a halting step forward then placed both hands on either side of the box, peering in with a mystified look.