Page 77 of The Light Within

“But that’s great!” Cinn cried. “Isn’t that so much better for air pollution? Why haven’t we put this motetech or whatever into every car?”

Julien glanced at him. “It’s not quite that simple. There isn’t an infinite supply of motepower. It has to be converted before it can be utilised for technology. The conversion process is complex and requires a lot of specialised equipment. There are a fair few factories around Europe that create all the motetech products we use.” Julien drummed on Maz’s wheel. “My father now owns most of the companies,” he added, sourly. “Anyway, their output is still a drop in the ocean compared to the car manufacturing industry, for example. There simply aren’t enough resources.”

“Right,” Cinn said slowly.

“One thing that’s helped this past decade is the invention of motecells. I’ve told you about them before. You know, a bit like a battery for motetech? Far more advanced, of course. They’re everywhere now. They power the majority of motetech.”

“Oh, yeah?” Cinn stared out of the window, watching as the fields and sky blurred into an endless, seamless haze. He’d never get completely used to living outside of a city.

“They can be tiny, like the ones in my gold mugs at my flat. Or they can be bigger, like the size of your hand even, for more complex things. They’re crucial for maintaining efficiency and extending the range ofmotetech applications, but even then, their production is limited. So, while they’ve made a difference, it’s still a balancing act with the resources we have.” Julien’s eyes suddenly slid over to him. “What?”

Cinn flinched. He’d switched from staring at the view to staring over at Julien, a grin aching his face.

“Sorry, I wasn’t actually listening to half of that. I was just enjoying listening to you nerd out.” Cinn lightly punched Julien’s arm. He scowled. “Sounds like you know what you’re talking about. You’ll be running MEET in no time.”

After a scoff, Julien paused for a long moment. “I love the design side of things,” he said. The last time they’d gone to Paris, Cinn had flipped through an old sketchbook of Julien’s, and had been extremely impressed. “But I can’t continue to work under Jonathan Steele if he’s aligned himself fully withPère.”

Julien shifted the gearbox with violent force, then rested his hand on the gearstick, knuckles going white. Cinn gently pulled it onto his lap, rubbing the tension from Julien’s fingers and interlacing them with his own.

“Don’t think about him right now,” Cinn murmured, squeezing his hand tightly.

The warmth of the car lulled him to sleep for the rest of the journey. Julien gently woke him at the France–Switzerland border so they could flash their passports. Then, the next thing Cinn knew, he was rubbing bleary eyes, to see more clearly the industrial sprawl of Paris’s outskirts.

“Will you get annoyed at me if I tell you I booked the most expensive suite at the hotel?”

Cinn pressed his head back against the headrest. “We talked about this!”

“I know we did. And I stand by what I said—the towels alone are worth the price.”

“Just don’t tell me how much it cost so I can’t convert it into months of groceries.”

When Julien pulled Maz up to the grand entrance of the hotel, Cinn wanted to punch him. It was simply the most outlandish building he’d ever seen—an elegant facade adorned with intricate stonework and twinkling lights—easily passable as a fairytale palace.

Inside, the lobby was a blend of marble floors, glittering lights, and ritzy seating. They moved past the check-in desk, their footsteps hushed by the opulent carpet, and took the elevator up to their room.

When the suite door swung open, Cinn’s jaw nearly dropped. Julien’s apartment back in Talwacht was one thing, but this was a whole other universe of opulence. Its sheer extravagance was overwhelming: floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dazzling view of Paris, while crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over the plush furniture. The living area boasted a piano grander than Julien’s own, and a lavishly stocked bar. The bathroom—complete with a jacuzzi and a rain shower—was practically the size of the entire ground floor of his house.

It was absurd, luxurious, and completely over the top. “Julien, this is… wow.”

There was no reply. He turned and found Julien sitting on the piano stool, his fingers gliding over the keys, as he played a soft, melodious tune.

“Right.” Julien sprang up from the piano stool with a sudden burst of energy, like the music had inspired him. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t you need to rest? You’ve just driven all day.” While Cinn slept like a baby.

“What? No. Paris awaits. And I’ve told you, Maz drives herself.” Julien wrapped that awful scarf around his neck. He’d kept his promise, wearing it almost every day, to Cinn’s mild horror, as it really didn’t go with his sleek, tailored wool overcoat, with its deep navy hue and sophisticated cut.

Julien held out his hand. “Ready for the best date of your life?”

Cinn’s bar for dates had historically been set fairly low—six-packs shared between two on a park bench low—but Julien didn’t need to know that.

The streets of Paris buzzed with late afternoon hustle, the crisp January air carrying all the big city sounds Cinn often missed—honking horns, chatter from sidewalk cafés, and the rhythmic clatter of footsteps on cobblestones. Shop windows glowed warmly against the gathering twilight, their displays a riot of colour amidst the swirl of passers-by wrapped in dark scarves and overcoats.

They walked for an age by the riverbank, the low winter sun casting long shadows and shimmering off the Seine’s cold, rippling surface, before heading toRue de Rivoli. Julien led the way, reeling off facts about historic monuments that were difficult to study when Julien’s serious tour-guide face was far more amusing. And attractive.

Julien slowed the walk by giving extortionate amounts of money to any busker they came across, especially the terrible ones, but eventually they wandered over to a cluster of shoe shops where a stark white pair of trainers caught Cinn’s eye.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

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