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    Summary

    This, all of it, was Mairon’s idea. His dutiful lieutenant, his resplendent Maia, sidling up to him as he worked in his rooms, as with a quill he inked a diagram on an empty book-sheaf. And in the diagram an instrument was depicted, a tool for bodily investigation whose construction Melkor was refining, and it was one Mairon had not encountered before.

    May I? he asked, bending his fair head over the page, running his glittering index finger just outside the not-yet-dry outline of ink. He was curious. He had questions. Melkor answered them plainly, and Mairon nodded as he listened, and though his face was schooled into unerring neutrality, Melkor heard the slight quickening of his breath, noted the darkening of his eyes to murky sand-storm gold.

    Could you show me? Mairon requested at last. A… demonstration, if that is not too much to ask; and so here they are.

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