Eifan withdraws his hand, shaking his head. “No,” he says. “This is neither the time nor the place to delve into such remembrances.”
He reaches instead into the satchel slung at his side, rummaging through it and producing a small piece of dark, finely woven cloth with a nearly imperceptible but reflective iridescent sheen. The cloth is but a smaller bolt that had years ago been carefully scissored away from the mothercloth — the only one of its kind.
Gently, almost tenderly, Eifan drapes the cloth over the orb, covering it completely. Only then does he wrap his fingers around the orb and pick it up. He can feel the thing’s animosity, even through the cloth, but the memories contained within cannot breach that barrier. That they even try — without a song to entice them forth — is deeply unsettling to him, suggesting that the orb is not merely a physical object, but also a living one.
He contemplates this for only a moment before placing the orb in his satchel and returning his attention to the room.