I cannot, said the visitor. Only the Anchor's keeper can. And now — it pointed one long finger at Elias's chest — that is you. Elias woke on his cabin floor, the iron poker digging into his ribs, the fire long dead. Dawn was still bleeding through the window. Only seconds had passed. But the shard was real — warm in his palm, its tiny galaxy spinning.
He touched it.
On the oak table, where the figure had laid its slender, luminous hand, a single object now sat: a shard of glass no larger than a matchbox. It wasn't there when Elias had finally fallen asleep, clutching the iron poker like a prayer. Yet there it was — humming.
Not audibly. The hum was inside his teeth, his sternum, the hollow of his skull.
Because you touched the Anchor. And now the Anchor has chosen.
Elias opened his mouth to argue. He hadn't followed. He had simply touched a piece of glass. But the being raised a hand — three fingers, too long — and the protest died in his throat.