《Descend》


 No Accident 1

    A fat drop of poison hung suspended over the last glass of water in the world. It took forever to fall, but fall it did, rippling jewel-green death into the liquid below. When the water stilled, it looked untouched. Clear and sweet and cold. The girl who had watched its descent stepped deeper into the endless room, her throat aching with thirst. Just a little sip. Just one little sip and she''d never be thirsty again. Both her hands ringed around the icy glass and she opened her eyes to the real world. The dream rolled off her, leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. Her throat still ached for water, an ache that told her the truth:


    She was alive, and living things had no luxury of sitting still.


    The moonbeams filtering through the window curtains illuminated the dim, vast space around her. Had she really woken, or was this still a dream? She squinted into the distance where shadows deepened and pooled as they always did in the corners of things. Corners meant walls. This wasn''t the endless room of her dream. It was somewhere else, somewhere real. But it was no place that she knew. And more than just her throat ached. Her back, her chest, her stomach, all of her felt bruised and battered.


    God, what had happened to her, and where was she?


    No answer for the first question came to her, but the second might if she tried to find it. Another look at the giant room and she saw the things that she had missed before. A white screen to the left of her bed and the bottom of it, presumably for privacy. Whitewashed stone walls that rose to a ceiling that seemed as far away as clouds. White marble floors that glinted with the moon''s light. White pillars that stretched up, up, up from that marble like ancient trees bleached by centuries of daylight. Row after row of beds, all of them done up in neat white linens, with neat white bars at the top and bottom of every single one of them. The beds that she could actually see looked empty. She stayed still and listened. No sounds of breathing or the moaning of dream-filled sleep. The swell of silence sang in her ears. She inhaled deeply. There, that scent. Astringent and sharp and too clean, the smell of a hospital or a doctor''s office. But where were all the doctors, the nurses, the patients? How could she be the only person in an entire ward of what seemed to be a very large hospital?


    Something was wrong here, deeply wrong, and she was caught in the middle of it. How she knew that she couldn''t say. The knowledge simply fell over her like a shadow that she couldn''t step out of.


    Nothing good would happen if she stayed here. Nothing.


    Her skin prickled at the truth of that. Panic twisted in her guts and punched the air from her lungs. Heartbeats flooded out the silence. No, nothing good would happen if she stayed. Something terrible had happened to her and she had been left in some strange place. Or perhaps that terrible thing had happened to her here. Either way, she needed to leave. She shifted up, sheets puddling at her waist and the air kissing coldly through her nightgown. Every part of her throbbed in one spot or another. It took a few painful breaths between her teeth before she forced herself up the rest of the way. Now her legs. She needed to get out of bed, needed to go.


    She swept her right leg to the edge of the mattress, every muscle in it screaming a protest. Her left leg didn''t move as easily. She took hold of her thigh, ignored the thrumming pain when she pressed her fingers into her flesh through her nightgown, and forced her leg to move. A mistake. Pain roared from her hip to her toes. White stars sparked in her eyes. She cried out, unable to stop herself. This new, fierce, fiery pain outshone the other injuries like a sun swallowing the light of distant galaxies. She stayed locked in place by that overwhelming light until it faded to the edges of her vision. Her knee throbbed, a feeling that spread like ice over a pond through the rest of her leg.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    One of her hands shot up from her thigh, reaching for her throat on reflex. Her fingers closed around something that hung on her chest. Whatever it was bit into her palm, a cold, hard thing with an odd shape. She lifted it out, feeling for the first time the chain that hung around her neck. At the end of that chain rested a cylindrical gold pendant inlaid with dark material that she somehow knew was onyx and jet, the jewels of mourning. Now her other hand rose to hold the pendant at its base. Her fingers moved on instinct, at the same time pressing and twisting the black cap at the top of the pendant. The cap came away easily.


    Moonlight filled the little cylinder. She stared at it for what seemed ages, then shook out the contents onto her palm, a short, slender vial of silvery liquid that glowed so brightly she clapped her hands around in fear that someone might see. She looked from one end of the ward to the other before she dared peek through her fingers.


    Her mouth welled with thirst at the sight of the liquid rolling against the glass. A ghostly taste rose on her tongue, one bittersweet and laced with mint. She uncorked the vial and smelled that very taste. A memory rushed into her


    <em class="western">three drops of silver into her mouth filled her with beautiful <em class="western">heat


    and she made her choice. She dipped one of her smallest fingers into the liquid, jolting at the unexpected warmth of it. The stuff tasted as expected, and it ran down into her like liquid sunlight. Her pain receded under its brilliance. Before she knew it, her fingers had taken up the cork again. She turned it around on her palm, and stopped when she saw what protruded from the underside of the cork, a tiny length of gold with a hollow at the end that would rest in the liquid when the vial was closed. She hadn''t noticed it in her hurry to open the thing.


    Could it really help her, this odd medicine? The first taste had. A little more couldn''t hurt, and she knew the flavor of it. Had to have taken it before. She used the tiny dipper to place two more drops of silver on her tongue. Summer blossomed inside her, chasing away the cold of the ward and her pain and her fear. She could move now, she just knew it.


    Too many seconds seemed to pass as she corked the vial and returned it to the pendant. She took several breaths before she grabbed her left leg again. This time there wasn''t the faintest flicker of pain. Her leg moved slowly, stiffly, but move it did. She pressed her feet to a floor so cold that it burned even through the protective blanket of the silvery medicine. Her aching arms pushed her to a stand. She almost smiled in triumph, until her legs buckled. The floor was as hard as it looked, sending shocks through her hands and knees. But she had caught herself from falling flat on her face, and that counted for something.


    She bit back a frustrated sob. Her legs couldn''t take her weight, slight as it seemed to be. But if she couldn''t walk, she could still crawl. She slid along the floor like some huge, grotesque infant, her nightclothes trailing on the floor like a shroud. Her hands and wobbly knees soon numbed from the cold marble beneath her. She rounded the end of her bed and lifted her eyes to the ward, searching for a possible exit. Where could it be? Her gaze caught on a large, dark rectangle cut into the long wall opposite the windows behind her, the long wall that she had been facing when she had awoken. Leaving her bed had allowed her to see the rectangle on the other side of the screen.


    Doors, those had to be doors. She aimed her body towards them and set off.

 No Accident 2

    Her breath labored as she did the same. Hair hung in her face and clung to her neck; the heavy fringe across her forehead grew hot and damp with perspiration that quickly chilled in the cold air. She counted the rows of beds as she passed through them. The first one against the wall with the doors, the second where she had been, a third one beyond that, then a fourth ... Four rows of beds that reached far into the dark ahead of her just like they reached behind her. An expanse as immense as it was empty, and no sign that anyone else had ever been here except for her. That could very well be the truth ¡ª it wasn''t as if she remembered other people. But maybe that was better than having company. Awful things could lurk in the dark. Or the day.


    A shiver knifed through her, drawing her flesh up with it. She went as fast as she could go. Her right hand slapped a little too loudly against the floor. The smack of it echoing through the ward like a pistol shot. She paused, holding her breath as she listened, tensing at what might come out of the shadows to investigate the new noises in its territory.


    Only the sound of her heartbeat flooded her ears. She moved on. Ten more beds until she reached the doors. Nine, eight, seven, the doors clearer now. Six, five, four, her muscles straining even through the effects of the silver medicine. Three, two, one, thank God, they really <em class="western">were doors, huge doors with one half-circle window over each. The glass was stained in places with the images of stars, backlit by distant light outside the ward. She blinked at the unexpected fancifulness in an otherwise stark space, then kept going until she reached her destination.


    Warm air hushed through the gap under the doors. Not much warmer than that in the ward, but warm enough to make her frozen fingers tingle with sudden life. She slid one of her hands up the nearest door, then the other. Her body straightened as slowly as an old, rusty hinge as she rose on her knees. She clutched the heavy handle, shuddering at the frigid metal. It creaked a little thanks to her efforts, but nothing more. She grabbed it with her other hand, and then allowed herself a trembling rest against the doors.


    The small break proved a mistake. Fatigue crashed down over her, the weight of it crushing her momentum. She yanked feebly on the handle anyway. It had to turn, that was what handles did, they turned and they opened and they let people out, they let them escape.


    This one didn''t. She dropped her head, sick with frustration, and didn''t hold back the sob that came to her now.


    Light. She blinked rapidly, unable to believe what she saw. Light was leaking under the doors, buttery and warm. Someone was coming. Footsteps raced towards the ward. Her heart slammed against her chest as she stared in stark horror at the growing light. She couldn''t stop staring, she would stare until she was caught, stare until she was <em class="western">dead.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    She let go of the handle like it was a live coal. Her legs screamed as she pivoted around on her knees. The bed, she''d have to hide under the nearest bed and not make a sound. She scrambled for it as quickly as she could manage without making noise, without giving herself away, but it wasn''t fast enough. One of the door handles creaked behind her. She stilled, waiting for the door to fall open and the light to reveal all. Waiting for whoever would be standing in that light. She craned her neck until she could just see the doors from the corner of an eye. A sickly-sweet scent rolled through the gap, making her stomach flip with nausea. She knew that smell, somehow.


    The handle turned down a quarter of the way to the floor. It flexed back up. Up, down, up, down, up down. The door was locked. It bounced back into its original position, as if the person on the other side had suddenly let go of it. The light wavered, then died. The footsteps scampered away.


    As soon as things quieted again, she slipped under the bed. She passed through to the other side and didn''t stop until she got under its neighbor. It wouldn''t hide her from anyone determined to find her, but she could wait here until she was sure that person wouldn''t come back. Then she could look for another exit or something that would unlock those doors.


    The gap at the bottom remained dark after a few breaths. She slowly made her way back in that direction, sliding from her hiding place into the open spot between both beds. She sat on the floor, back against the bed whose safety she''d just left, and breathed. It was easier to catch her breath here. Being beneath a bed felt like being buried in a grave. She tilted her head into the mattress, letting it cradle her weary neck.


    Light again. This time it glowed not just through the gap, but in the windows above it. Closer and closer, bright and brighter, faster and faster. The footsteps had returned, too. Louder, quicker. She dropped to her stomach, with a grunt of pain as the air whooshed out of her lungs. There was no time to crawl. She rolled towards the bed by the door. The metal frame slammed her square in the spine and across half of her body. Her injuries woke with a renewed vengeance, one that the silvery medicine couldn''t contain. She bit the inside of her lip hard and tasted blood. But it was better than having rolled into the bed frame with her face. Breaking her nose would have made keeping quiet impossible.


    The footsteps grew so loud that they overtook the sound of her own breathing. Then they stopped. Another sound came, one jangling and metallic. Keys, those sounded like keys. She plastered a hand over her mouth. The least sound couldn''t escape, not if she was to have a chance at ... at something. What could she protect herself with if this person came for her? Just what? Her eyes flicked in the half-dark, searching for something. There, on the table between the beds, a lamp. Dark metal, bronze perhaps. That would be heavy enough to hurt anyone who wanted to hurt her.


    <em class="western">Creeeee-aaak.


    Light poured in, a flood of gold that washed away the silver moonlight. The doors had opened. Steady footsteps followed.

 No Accident 3

    Each slam of her heart seemed to give away her position. Her hand clamped down tighter over her mouth, until she felt her teeth through her lips. She still tasted copper on her tongue; she''d bitten herself too hard.


    The footsteps headed in the direction of where she''d been sleeping, carrying the light with them. She shifted herself with painful slowness, moving a little faster as the steps grew quieter. Once on her stomach, she started wiggling under the bed. The light glittered in the distance like a village in the night.


    Her reprieve didn''t last. The light swiveled suddenly, then started bobbing her way. A cry caught halfway in her throat before she stopped it. The light streaked towards her. She''d been heard. Terror lurched as her stomach did the same. Hide, hide, hide, she needed to hide. Nothing else mattered but hiding.


    Footfalls clapped like the thunder of a nearing storm. She got under the bed just in time for her hunter ¡ª a man, with those shoes ¡ª to race past her hiding spot. Only her eyes moved, tracing his light even as it almost disappeared altogether. It drifted back her way after a moment, as if it were an ember caught on the wind. His footsteps were short and clipped. Agitated, perhaps, that he hadn''t found his quarry. She drew in a long breath through her nose just before he reached her, then held it.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Those black shoes went round the bed, towards the door, and disappeared from sight. The footsteps stopped. The angle of the light shifted, and there was the small rasp of metal on metal. He''d placed his lamp in a wall bracket, surely. (And that sound was another thing she inexplicably knew, familiarity in an unfamiliar world.) But why was he doing that?


    Air burned in her lungs. She couldn''t hold her breath much longer. <em class="western">Leave, just leave, leave me and go away, whoever you are. She clamped her eyes shut. <em class="western">Go, damn you.


    Step, step.


    Her heart jumped into her throat and her eyes flew open. He was coming her way.


    Step, step.


    No, please, no. She wasn''t here, she wasn''t here, she just wasn''t.


    Step, step.


    A long silence. Then cloth rustled and leather creaked. The leather of his shoes. He''d moved close enough for her to hear such tiny noises. Her eyes widened so much that they felt as if they might roll straight out of her skull. But she couldn''t look. He''d hear her if she moved as much as a muscle.


    The bed shuddered with sudden force. It lifted away from the floor in a single, violent jerk. An enormous crash sounded behind her. She twisted up, tried to get on legs that refused to carry her. Above her loomed a dark figure with a headful of fire and Hell raging behind its back. She gasped out a huge breath, then sucked another one in to scream. The shadow fell upon her before she ever made a sound.

 No Accident 4

    He looked like a man. Under other circumstances, she might''ve mistaken him for one. But he had thrown a whole bed aside as if it''d been nothing, then clasped one hand over her mouth and one behind her head faster than she could blink. His strength was inhuman, but he wasn''t some dark demon cut from the night itself or on fire ¡ª that had been his oil lamp playing tricks with shadows and the color of his hair. He looked almost normal, though so pale that he looked bloodless instead of pink. Save for his mouth. That looked as if he''d bitten into something red and ripe, the ghost of which still stained his lips even after washing. Or perhaps he''d preferred the taste of flesh instead, left so rare that it might as well not been cooked at all.


    Her stomach twisted and rolled at the thought.


    "Don''t make a sound," he said, and she finally looked from his mouth. His clear, light gaze ¡ª the color was impossible discern in fluttering lamplight that reflected in his eyeglasses ¡ª held hers more firmly than his hands did. "That wouldn''t be good for either of us."


    His tone didn''t seem angry or demanding, just detached, as if he were noting the color of the walls. If it''d been anything else she would''ve shrieked the second she had been able to. Instead, she nodded her captured head as much as she could. A slight movement, one that he more likely felt than saw. He moved his palm from her mouth just a little. When not even a squeak passed her lips, he moved his hand completely away. His other fingers were still in her hair, the weight of them a light warning.


    "Wh-who are you?" she said, but that wasn''t the right thing to ask. "No, <em class="western">what are you?"


    They sat so closely together that they couldn''t look anywhere else, closely enough for her to taste his clove-laced breath when he laughed. It was more a scoffing noise than a happy one. "The smartest Ellsworth girl doesn''t remember me?" he said. "Now that''s a crying shame."


    Her fear faded under his bright amusement. More importantly, he''d give her a name. She grasped to that scrap of information like a sailor grasping the flotsam of a shipwreck. He knew something about her, and that made him important. "An Ellsworth?" she said. "Is that who I am? What''s my first name?"


    Fingers curled into hair deep enough for the tips to brush her scalp and make her shiver. "That spill of yours sure knocked you for a loop." He seemed to consider something. "Do you really not know who I am?"


    She shook her head no.


    "Well, what <em class="western">do you remember?"


    Tears welled in her eyes at the new softness in his tone. Her earlier fears seemed ridiculous now. He didn''t want to hurt her, and the only thing deeply wrong in this place was her. People were supposed to remember who they were, but when she tried to come up with something, anything, about herself all she found was a deep well that was as empty as it was black. "I kn-know that I''m supposed to know who I am," she said. "But I don''t. I just don''t. Who am I? Who are you? What is this place? Why did I wake up hurting so much? I don''t understand any of it. I don''t, I don''t, I d ¡ª"


    A finger pressed to her lips. "Don''t go dotty on me, Ellsworth." he said.


    She pulled back enough so she could speak. "I''m not." Trying to move farther away from him proved impossible when he was bracing the back of her head with a hand like he was bridling an animal. Irritation sparked in her miles beneath her fear and confusion. "And stop touching me."


    He did so without a second''s hesitation, murmuring an apology, and both those things hammered down the rest of her fear. His forearms rested on his trousered thighs and his fine, white hands dangling off his knees. Head lowering, he turned his gaze to the floor as if he''d spotted some fascinating insect crawling along the marble. "I can tell you who you are," he began. He looked at her through his coppery eyelashes, then away. Shyness would''ve seemed the reason for that if his eyes hadn''t been so alive. "Do you want to know?"


    The answer came to her at once. It was a moment before she worked up enough courage to say it, however. "Yes."


    After giving a single nod, he went on. "You''re Elise of the Ellsworth family, you''re nineteen years of age, and you''re a freak just like me."


    Her head swam with this small flood of facts. Most of the words made sense, but one didn''t. "I don''t ... I don''t understand," she said. "A freak? Why are you making insults instead of explaining things?"


    "It''s no insult." He nodded, directing his chin at what lay behind her. "I threw that bed aside like it was nothing, remember?"


    As if she could forget that. The suddenness of it, the noise, the terror. "Yes," she said, "yes, I remember."


    Something of what she felt must''ve come through in his words because he looked faintly apologetic. "I hadn''t meant to scare you, I''d meant to find you. And when I hadn''t, when I saw the edge of your nightgown under the bed like that, I''d thought ..." His shoulders twitched a shrug. "Doesn''t matter what I thought. Anyway, doing things like that makes me a freak," he said. "Other freaks like to give themselves cute nicknames, but I know what I am: the impossible made possible."Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    She''d been wrong. Some memories remained in her. His talk of freaks and impossibilities awoke more than a few in her. "You''ve read too many comic books."


    The young man stood up from his crouch. He took a few steps back until he was standing near the bed on other side of the big doors. He folded up a leg to stand like a crane, then casually jabbed his foot back. The bed exploded backward. It crashed into the next bed over in a great squeal of metal, and both of them careened into yet another bed. His foot sank back down to the floor with a short, soft tap. "Yeah," he said, reaching up a hand to adjust his horn-rimmed glasses, "I always have liked the funnies."


    Elise ¡ª and that name <em class="western">felt right, somehow ¡ª stared at the carnage behind him. He''d barely tapped the bed with the sole of his shoe, and yet it''d flown back as if it''d been tissue paper in a gale. Those beds had bent and twisted together with the force of his mild tap. No one could do that, it was ...


    "Impossible," she whispered.


    "Maybe for other people."


    Her hands ached. She looked down at them; they''d curled into fists at some point, but she couldn''t remember when. Elise relaxed her fingers. "Can I do that too?" she said. "Move things without even trying?"


    Yellow light flashed off his glasses as he tilted his head at her. "No, you''re special in a different way."


    <em class="western">Special. That word trilled warmly inside her. Could she really be ...? "Are we the only people like this?" she said.


    He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, then rocked back onto his heels. For a moment, it seemed as if he wouldn''t answer her. "There are other people with other powers." As if sensing her next question, he added, "We''re called a lot of things, but the name that we use around here is ''Extraordinaries.'' Anyone who''s not a complete square will just call himself an Ex, though." He dragged his hands back out of his pockets. "But that''s enough interrogation; you can''t sit around on this cold floor."


    She tried to protest when he came to her. He didn''t acknowledge a word of it, just plucked her up like a feather and spirited her away. His arms didn''t feel very muscular, and the fact she could feel that through the thin layers of her nightgown set a furnace roaring in her cheeks. No, as far as men went, he wasn''t remarkably tall or broad. Average, if anything, and a bit on the wiry side. With those glasses, he looked like an academic only a few years into college. But he held her without faltering or losing his grip. His strength didn''t have an easy explanation. Her mind drifted to cheap paper filled with daring heroes and fantastical villains, people who did impossible things.


    Before she knew it, he''d set her onto the bed she''d woken in. She refused him when he tried to make her get back into the covers; he compromised by tucking them around her where she sat. He busied himself with something sitting on the table between her bed and the one on the right of it. There was a dainty click and then a hiss. A light unfurled in the bedside lamp. It wasn''t the clean light of electricity, but the fuzzy, golden light of gas. She strained forward for a better look as he turned the light up a bit more ¡ª a metal tube led from the back of the lamp and straight down into a small hole in the floor.


    "Gaslights?" she said, when he noticed her wandering attention. "Those sure are old-fashioned."


    He settled into a white metal chair by the lamp''s table. "A lot of things are in this anthill." He crossed his legs, then pushed up the sleeve of his jacket to check a golden watch. "Someone will have heard us playing around by now, so it won''t be long before they show up to investigate." He tugged his sleeve down. "If you have any delicate questions, you should ask them while you still have a chance."


    That bit about "delicate questions" sounded like a joke of some kind, but she wasn''t laughing. Didn''t feel like laughing, not now or in a thousand years. A storm of questions swirled in her head, so many that she had trouble picking the first one. But she forced herself to choose. "Do we know each other?"


    His attention turned to his glasses next. He took them off and stared at some defect that only he could see. "In a way." He yanked the pocket square out of his suit jacket, and cleaned his glasses as he spoke. "We both live in the same town. That means going to the same schools, the same markets, the same movie theater ..." He squinted at his work, then blew on one of the lenses. After a good, long look, he seemed satisfied. He put his glasses back on. "It''s hard for us to escape each other in a town like Valens Valley. Hard for anyone."


    "Is that where this hospital is? Valens Valley?" The name didn''t sound familiar, though that meant nothing when someone had a head as empty as hers was.


    Now he fiddled with his pocket square, a brilliant yellow bit of cloth. His movements were quick, precise, and she couldn''t help but watch them. "This isn''t a hospital," he said. "It''s the University''s clinic ¡ª Rambling University''s clinic." He tucked the pocket square where it belonged, and it stood against the navy blue of his jacket in a brilliant point of color. "That''s where you are, and where you''ve been for the past nine days."


    Nine days. That seemed a terribly long time. "Why am I here?" She tightened the covers around herself. Only in the light of the lamp did she finally see that one of her hands had a big, faded yellow-green bruise on the back of it. An old bruise. No doubt other bruises like it covered other parts over her body. "What''s happened to me?" Something he''d said to her before came back to her. "You said that I''d taken a spill. Does that mean that I had a bad fall?"


    "Do you really think you fell?" he said.


    She would''ve said yes, but something in his tone snagged at her like a hook. He was saying something else with that question of his, he had to be. Then the light behind her swelled like a sunrise, and her words shrank back just as she shrank down onto her bed. Footsteps joined the light, echoing down what sounded like a very long and very wide corridor. There were so many of them, too many. A lot of people were coming for her and when they had got her they would ... they would ...


    Her knees hit the floor. Blankets and sheets avalanched around her. She had slipped off the mattress without feeling herself fall. Her eyes closed like tight fists. For the second time in one night, she found herself picked up, blankets and all, and placed back in her bed.


    The young man squeezed her shoulders so lightly that she might''ve imagined the touch. "They won''t hurt you," he said, "and that''s a promise."


    Elise jerked her head up, eyes flying open wide to seek him out. He had left his chair to stand at the foot of the bed, and there he watched the people coming for them. She didn''t dare look in the same direction ¡ª even if she had tried the privacy screen wouldn''t have let her see a thing. All she could do was listen, helplessly, as an entire army stomped her way.

 No Accident 5

    A deep, angry voice rang out: "Mr. Marek!"


    She fought the urge to tunnel into her blankets, but the young man, absurdly, gave a half-bow so serious that it could only be mocking. Whoever owned that angry voice wasn''t someone he feared. "Sir," he said, without the faintest note of disrespect.


    Above and around, the light grew and footsteps echoed. "You have ten seconds to tell me what has happened here." The angry man sounded much closer, perhaps only a few beds away. His accent was English, the snobby kind. Something about that made a nervous laugh jump in her throat.


    "I heard a noise on my rounds, then discovered Miss Ellsworth playing hide-and-seek."


    "And the clamor that you''ve caused" ¡ª Mr. Angry tapped forward without his army ¡ª "what possible reason could there have been for that?"


    "The young lady required a practical demonstration of my powers, sir."


    A figure came into sight just beyond the edge of the screen. He wore a long black coat and a head of white hair brushed straight back from his forehead. It was difficult to see much more of him than that since his face was half in shadows, but he only had a little height on Marek. He must''ve been a very old gentleman, if his hair was anything to go by. "Ah, of course," this man said. "She''d awoken from her sleep and ''required'' you to throw around clinic beds in the middle of the night. That makes perfect sense, thank you."


    If that white-haired man had been talking to her, she would have turned to an icicle right where she sat. But Marek ¡ª and what an odd name that was! ¡ª seemed not to notice the frigid vitriol rolling his way. "She didn''t think Extraordinaries were real, so I thought I''d best prove that we are." A pause. "And I didn''t go throwing around all the beds; some of them I kicked."


    "I''ve no time for games. Give me the truth."


    "That is the truth, sir ¡ª that and her alarming lack of memories. Why, she didn''t even know her own name till I gave it back to her."


    After a moment of silence, the white-haired man turned to Elise, his face still in shadows. "Is that the truth, Miss Ellsworth?" He had no anger now, only caution. Assessment. "That you have lost your memories?"


    The words seemed to fall from her tongue of their own volition. "Y-yes," she said. "Yes, I have."


    He stepped into the light of her bedside lamp, revealing a face much younger than expected. Ten or so years older than Marek, he might''ve been. But the most alarming thing was his chalk white skin, as if he''d been drained of blood. She recoiled from the sight. He seemed used to this reaction, for he pressed forward until he stood no more than a foot from her. His greatcoat settled about him, and his pale gaze latched to her like a leech. "Tell me what you remember."


    No, she wouldn''t. She didn''t want to. Nothing about this man seemed the least bit warm or concerned ¡ª he eyed her with a cold detachment that drew her flesh up like a draft. Her intent didn''t matter. The truth burrowed out of her like a living thing. She told him all that she could remember, starting the dream that had woken her. When she started describing him entering the clinic and yelling at Marek, he waved her off.


    "That''s enough," he said. He turned to the people still hidden beyond the screen, then called out, "Andrews."


    "Yes, sir!" a woman answered.


    "Go locate one of Ellsworth''s friends, the Travere girl or the Addens one; it doesn''t matter which as long as she brings photographs of herself and Miss Ellsworth." He brushed something away from from the sleeve of his black coat. Light flashed on a silver badge that he wore in his waistcoat. "Have I any need to repeat myself?" he said, as if wondering why Andrews hadn''t left yet. Andrews said that he hadn''t any need, that she had everything memorized, and then hurried off. Hard to blame her. His icy attention returned to Marek once more. "You, go tidy the mess you''ve made ¡ª including the dents."This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    "Of course," Marek said, without hesitation. But his gaze slipped to Elise as he headed off, slipped and stayed there until forced to break it by distance.


    "The rest of you, secure the corridor." When they left, taking their lights with them, the white-haired man settled into the chair that Marek had vacated. "You must forgive my skepticism," he said, and she wanted to slap him for that <em class="western">must. It twisted an apology into a demand, one that she wouldn''t give into. "The truth is never an easy thing to come by under the best of circumstances, and that''s especially true here."


    She said, "Why?"


    That simple question seemed to knock him back into his chair a little. Metal screeched from the direction of the doors. Marek sounded busy. He waited until it had stopped before speaking. "Imagine a small subset of the human population for whom the rules of reality do not quite apply, then imagine them contained within a single town, and taught by a single institution." He reached into his coat, then withdrew from it a silver cigarette case. "Imagine next all the near-magical abilities that it is possible to imagine ¡ª the existence of perfect liars, for instance." He opened his case, made a selection, then pressed it to his lips. "And when you''ve finished trying to imagine all those things, tell me how to be certain that anyone I might question could possibly be telling me the truth."


    Those were a lot of words to tell her nothing at all. But it raised a question, one that all his talk seemed designed to have raised. "How do you know that I''m not a perfect liar?"


    He clapped his case closed. "Because that isn''t your area of expertise, Miss Ellsworth." Next, he sought and found a lighter in his suit jacket far within the depths of his greatcoat. "You have what are termed ''passive abilities'' ¡ª that is to say, powers that don''t require conscious effort to maintain or use." He lit his cigarette. "Yours kept you alive after a rather nasty fall."


    Marek''s words clanged in her head: <em class="western">Do you really think you fell?


    It was quite the question, and she couldn''t help but give it voice. "Did I really just have a fall?" she said.


    Though the man didn''t cease his insouciant lounging, his pale eyes gleamed brightly. He took a long drag off his cigarette. "You''ve never been in the habit of defying gravity, unlike some other fine citizens I could name."


    That wasn''t an answer. Marek had hinted at something, but this man had outright avoided even telling her that much. "That''s not a yes or no."


    "Indeed. Your perceptiveness knows no bounds."


    Dark hatred flashed inside her for this man. She had no real idea as to who she was or where she was, and he sat here making snide remarks. "Shouldn''t someone concerned with truth give it away sometimes?"


    Smoke rose from his cigarette, unwinding itself like a great snake between the two of them. "There are rules against discussing open cases."


    Whatever that meant, it also was a clear <em class="western">no. Frustrated tears pricked at her eyes, and she wiped at them with the back of a hand. "Please, I don''t ... I don''t know what happened to me." She curled tightly into her blankets, trying to muffle her ears from the tremulous desperation in her voice. It sounded weak, and she didn''t want to be weak in front of him. But she was. "I don''t even know who I am. Can''t you tell me something? Anything?"


    He sat up, then tapped ash into an empty drinking glass beside the lamp. For a long time, he said nothing. Simply smoked or looked at his hands or rid himself of ashes. It seemed that his heart was as black as his clothes were, and that he would not tell her another word. A short distance away, something very large crashed down against the floor; Marek gave his insincere apologies to the officer who yelled at him to be careful.


    "I''ve been told that it''s in my best interest as Chief of Security to investigate your fall as an accident," the white-haired man finally said. "I''m certain that you appreciate what that means, for I have it on good authority that you''ve always been clever."


    If she''d been clever before her fall, she didn''t feel that way now. Her mind worked like ancient gears, turning his words over and over. He''d been told to investigate things as an accident ... he''d been <em class="western">told ... By whom? No, that didn''t matter, not at the moment, and if she asked he probably wouldn''t name whoever had ordered him to fix his findings. But he had been given a conclusion before the investigation had started or during it, which meant that someone wanted her fall to look like an accident, so that meant ¡ª

 No Accident 6

    "It''s no accident," she said, and hazarded a glance at him. He didn''t look impressed. "Or, at least, there''s a possibility that it might not be one."


    A thin smile rose to his lips, one partially hidden by cigarette he brought up to them. "As I said, clever."


    "The person who asked you to investigate things his way, as an accident ..." Her fingers flexed nervously. "Do you think he''s the reason I''ve been hurt?"


    "I''ve been told how to work this case by more than one person," he said, "and as for any of them being involved, I can''t say for certain. Mayors and boards of trustees aren''t infallible bastions of purity, no matter what they pay the pressmen to say about them." He inhaled his cigarette down to a stub, then exhaled a cloud of smoke. "But I''ve also been told by a much higher power to quietly find the truth, and just as quietly handle the party or parties responsible in the most permanent of fashions." He smiled again, this time with a predatory flash of teeth. He stubbed his cigarette out on the tip of a finger, then dropped it into the glass. The lamplight caught on his knuckles, which were crisscrossed by scars. "I''m certain your clever little brain can puzzle out what that means, too."


    A chill worked down into her blankets, one that the temperature of the clinic had nothing to do with. He''d been ordered to murder someone, that was what he was saying. "Why?" she said, her voice so small that she barely heard it.


    "You''re fond of that word, aren''t you?" He didn''t allow her time to reply, if a reply had even been wanted. "Valens Valley is an unusual place full of unusual people, and that is why."


    She tried not to peek at his deathly white skin. Tried, and failed.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    "You''ve forgotten what that means, of course," he said, his bitterness of tone forcing her to look elsewhere, "so allow me to enlighten you: we are what the government politely calls a ''project town,'' a civilization of monsters allowed to prosper under their benevolent supervision. To threaten one of us is to threaten the American way, or so I''ve been told."


    Powers, monsters, government projects, this all sounded like nonsense. Yet here she sat talking with a man who looked like a living corpse. Somewhere close by, another man was knocking dents out of metal bed frames either with his shoes or his bare hands. And she ... she had powers too, ones that had kept her from dying. Only this last was difficult to believe without direct evidence, not that she wanted to have any.


    Instead, she unraveled the message he''d left between his words. It hadn''t been deeply hidden. "You make this town sound like a prison," she said.


    He seemed to be staring at something only he could see, something resting an untold distance away. His voice carried the weight of ages when he spoke. "A prison is still a prison no matter how well-disguised its bars." He rose to his feet. "And on that note, I shall kindly ask you to keep our conversation between us, Miss Ellsworth. Ears are always listening, and friends are not always friends." He reached up to adjust his tie, which had been upset by the ludicrous way he''d been sitting earlier. "Give your full trust to no one, not until your attacker has been caught."


    Sound advice, with a fatal flaw. "That would mean not trusting you."


    "So it would," he conceded, with a nod. "Now, if you''ll forgive me, I must fetch the president; she''ll be quite cross with me if I don''t inform her of your condition." As he reached the foot of the bed, she told him to wait. He paused, then cast a glance over his shoulder. "Yes?"


    "Why tell me all that?" she said. "Why take the risk?" Because there surely must''ve been risk in it if he asked her to keep their talk a secret.


    Out of the lamp''s harsh light, he looked almost normal. His skin could be mistaken for a trick of the light. "There should be some kindness in this world, don''t you think?"


    To that, she had no answer. She couldn''t remember if the world had ever been unkind to her or not in the first place. He disappeared round the edge of her screen at a fast clip, melting into the trembling shadows like a phantom.

 No Accident 7

    Hardly any time passed before a new commotion started by the doors, one that was too quiet for Elise to hear much of. Even if she could have made out the words, she couldn''t have listened ¡ª she was busy going over all the things she''d been told this night. Of course, even her cluttered thoughts couldn''t tune things out forever.


    "Food?" Marek said. "At this hour? Planning on having a picnic at midnight?"


    "I''ve never been been fond of repeating myself," came the reply from the white-haired man. She couldn''t see him, not with the privacy screen in the way, but his voice was unmistakable. "And it isn''t as if you''ve never found yourself in the kitchens at an ungodly hour before. In this case, you''ll have a good reason for it, not to mention permission."


    A brief pause followed that. "All right, your wish is my command, professor."


    Professor? Could that half-dead man really be a professor at this university? Wasn''t he a security chief? Maybe it was just a nickname. But who could be crazy enough to give a nickname to someone like him? "None of your cheek, I''m in no mood for it."


    "I guess not." Marek sounded as if he were holding back his amusement. "No one ever does when they''ve got a visit with our illustrious president looming large in their immediate future. Good luck with that, by the way."


    It was all too easy to imagine the so-called professor giving Marek a look that could knock Medusa down dead. "Go."


    If the lack of wisecracks meant anything, Marek had left at once. The professor might''ve left, too, because he''d stopped ordering people around. Elise occupied herself by trying to get back into bed. Just sitting on it wouldn''t be nearly as comfortable as sleeping in it would be. She shucked the covers aside, then spent a long while afterward shifting her legs onto the mattress. It proved a decent way to pass the time, if boring. She had the covers looking somewhat presentable when a new arrival soon drew her attention ¡ª two sets of footsteps coming fast in her direction. Her nervous hands smoothed at the top blanket as she waited for these visitors to show themselves. Had the professor already returned with the president?


    A woman in a dark, stiff-looking uniform and cap hooked around the end of the bed. In her tow drifted a girl clutching a huge book. The tears streaming down the girl''s deep brown face said everything. This was one of the people that the white-haired professor had wanted to be brought to Elise. She knew that without asking.


    The book thumped to the floor. Two warm arms circled Elise''s neck. "Oh, Ellie," the girl cried, "we''ve been so worried about you. Everybody said you''d wake up, I knew you''d wake up, but it was bad this time, real bad. They were mopping up blood for hours ... and the place that you fell, it made things worse knowing you''d been there." She sniffled, then pulled back a little so she could wipe at her eyes. "Well, go on, say you''re sorry for making my heart ache."


    "I''m sorry?" Elise had no idea what else to say, she really didn''t. If she''d been friends with this girl, she certainly didn''t remember it. The Elise Ellsworth of yesteryear was no more, and in her place sat an interloper. "I really am sorry, for a lot of things, Miss ..." What names had the Andrews woman been given? "Um, are you Miss Travere or Miss Addens? The chief or professor or whoever he is asked for one of you to be brought, but I don''t know who is who."


    "What are you talking about?"


    Elise took in a deep breath. "My memories, they''ve been damaged, I think, or lost," she said. "I had to be told my own name, so I don''t kn ¡ª"


    The girl''s dark eyes widened. Her hand clapped over her mouth, covering a gasp. She stared and stared at Elise for the longest time.


    "I''m sorry," Elise said. "I really am. I wish I knew who you are or where I am or what''s happened to this head of mine." No one had to tell her that similar apologies lined her future. She''d probably be giving them for years. "No one''s brought a doctor around either, so I can''t tell you what''s gone wrong."


    Arms wrapped around Elise a second time. "Oh, Ellie, you stupid little fool!"


    Andrews retreated a respectful distance away, standing sentinel in the shadows.


    It was a very long embrace. The girl let go after an eternity. She wiped at her eyes again. "No wonder Professor Gerver wanted me to bring photos." Her shoulders bunched together, and she looked as if she might start sobbing. "I''m Willow Travere," she said. "We''ve been pals since high school. You, me, Stella ¡ª Stella Addens, that is ¡ª and ..." Her voice faltered. "And, well, I''ll tell you about everyone else later, and yourself, too." She gave a smile that didn''t reach the rest of her face. "But for now, you ought to know where you are."


    She clasped Elise''s hands in her own. The clinic disappeared so suddenly that Elise cried out in surprise.


    Willow held her firmly. "Don''t be afraid."


    Regardless of that advice, fear and curiosity twined together in Elise as she marveled at the sight around them. Blue sky and clouds above, earth close below. The bed hadn''t gone anywhere beneath them, thank goodness. "Are we flying? Is that your power?"


    A smile both gentle and amused curled the edges of Willow''s lips. "No, nothing like that," she said. "I can make people see things that aren''t there ¡ª illusions, if you want to be fancy about it."The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    That made sense; if they had been flying above the University, it the sky would have been dark, not bright blue. Elise certainly hadn''t been clever enough to notice that. The clouds floated by and She reached out to touch one. Her fingers met only air. Pity, she''d always wanted to see what a cloud felt like, if one could be felt at all. "It looks so real."


    "Thanks; I''ve been working on it. Sometimes I can get things to do more than just look real, though today''s not one of those times."


    The two girls sat over an estate perched on a sunlit greensward. Its many wings and stories were so immense that it could only be called one thing: rambling. They drew closer to it at a speed that made Elise''s stomach drop, as if she''d just taken a sudden plunge in an elevator. The University had earned its name well ¡ª viewed from a slight angle, it had three stories. Three main wings branched off the large building to the left; each of those wings had two smaller spurs poking out from their middles that made them look like plus signs. The wing in the middle had a third smaller spur that poked from its farthest end. The whole thing resembled a E-shape, with some flourishes.


    "That''s our college, as you''ve probably guessed," Willow said. She pointed to the main section, which also happened to be the largest and the thickest. "The clinic where we''re at is right there." Then her finger traced through the air to point at the seven tiny spurs. "Those are where students stay." She stopped on the middle wing, and circled the third spur at the farthest end. "That one pointing east is Hall Seven." The greensward and the building on it drew closer to the girls, as if the earth itself was rising up to meet them. "Your room''s there, in the Persephone Dorm."


    That name rang like a silver bell deep inside Elise. "Persephone?"


    "Yeah, all the dorms have these nutty names. Gods for boys and goddesses for girls." Willow shrugged. "They don''t really mean anything. They''re just names to keep everyone from getting confused. The Dormitory Halls already have numbers, and boring old letters wouldn''t be as memorable as Persephone or Dionysus or Apollo."


    "Oh," Elise said, unable to think of anything more important to say. She kept her gaze on the University as it swam closer, letting her pick out more details. A clock tower stood at the very center of the ivy-covered main building, brooding over the entrance. Half-windows glinted below the first story, ones that might''ve belonged to a basement. She jolted when something patted her arm.


    Willow said, "It''s okay, you''ll remember everything soon enough."


    <em class="western">Don''t make promises you can''t keep, Elise wanted to tell her. That would''ve been too cruel, so she left it unsaid. The campus dissolved, returning them to the dark clinic. She almost asked Willow to bring it back simply so she could see the sun shining on the grass and the trees around Rambling.


    "Here, there''s more." Willow leaned down from where she sat on the bed, grabbing up the book she''d dropped. Only it wasn''t a book, but a photograph album. "Pictures," she said, tapping one of the big pages. She turned it over to reveal a large book tucked inside. "And a yearbook. I got them from your room, but I couldn''t find your album with the photos of everyone: you and me and the rest of our friends. Just this." Her fingers traced over the opposite page where several photographs of the same family were pasted ¡ª a light-haired man and woman posing with two girls, one dark of hair and one pale. They seemed to all have similarly fair skin tones, though it was difficult to tell in black and white. "There''s you."


    Elise reached up for her loose, dark hair, and curled a lock of it around a finger. She peered down at the solemn, little girl in the photographs. Such sad eyes. "That''s me?"


    "You, and your family." Willow pointed at the other girl. "That''s Meliora. She''s a year younger than you are. Your parents are Edwina and Charles."


    The fairness of skin seemed to be the only thing that Elise and the other Ellsworths had in common. Out of the four of them, only Elise had attempted a smile. And as the photographs charted the time, that smile grew dimmer. It faded entirely by the time she''d reached what looked like nine or ten. She picked up the yearbook and set it aside so she could look at the other page of the album, tracing the way these strangers had changed. Was that really her face? "We don''t look very much alike."


    "You wouldn''t. They took you in when you were six."


    "They must be kind people, then, to take in an orphan."


    A strange look passed over Willow''s face, full of feelings that disappeared too quickly for Elise to identify them. "You really have forgotten everything, haven''t you?" she said.


    "Not everything. I can still walk and talk."


    The poor attempt at a joke only made Willow''s eyes glimmer with tears. She kissed the smaller girl on the cheek. "Don''t worry, someone can fix you, I just know it. Your father, maybe."


    "He can fix me?" For the first time since she''d woken, Elise had a glimmer of hope. "How can he do that? Does he have the power to fix people?"


    "Power? You mean like ours?" Willow shook her head. "No, he''s an Ord, the same as your mother." She paused. "That''s a nickname for ordinary folks, ones who don''t have any powers at all."


    Elise''s shoulders sank. There''d be no easy fix for her broken mind. She''d been stupid to expect one to come along. So much for being clever.


    "But Dr. Ellsworth, he''s a scientist," Willow went on. "Working with Exes like us, that''s his job, so he''ll have some idea of what to do. That has to be where Gerver went, to go tell your dad what''s happened."


    That''d been the second time she''d heard that name. "Gerver," Elise said, "is that the name of the white-haired man?"


    "It sure is, every ugly syllable of it." Willow wrinkled her nose. "Halston Gerver, Combat Professor, Chief of Security, and all around pain in the neck." She offered Elise a consoling smile. "He''s also the Overseer of your Hall, which is almost exactly what it sounds like ¡ª he oversees all the students in Hall Seven, getting reports and things from the other professors about any troublemakers."


    "He''s very ..." <em class="western">Awful, inhuman, monstrous. Everything that came to mind would''ve worked as an insult, some of them deserved. But she couldn''t say those things. Unlikeable though he was, he was still a professor and she his student. Respect was due to his station, if nothing else. She rummaged up a word that seemed neutral. "... different."


    "Yeah," Willow said. "You have my sincere condolences, darling." She had no fear in her voice, absolutely none, which offered a hint about Gerver, or, at least, the way that people perceived him.


    But Elise needed to confirm that suspicion. "His condition," she said, "the way that he looks, is that normal?"


    The question didn''t seem to bother Willow. "It''s not common, but you see it sometimes, mostly with Addies." She caught the way that Elise frowned after that new word was introduced, and followed up with an explanation. "An Addy is someone who got their powers added to them instead of being born with them."


    "I see." It was a simple enough concept. "Does that make them any different from" ¡ª what had Marek called them? ¡ª "Extraordinaries?"


    Willow''s dark gaze slid away from Elise. "You''ve never thought so." She started to say something else, but an interruption came from the very man they''d been talking about.

 No Accident 8

    "My deepest apologies for interrupting," said a very unapologetic Gerver from the shadows where Andrews had been standing earlier, "but Miss Ellsworth''s supper is on the way." He seemed slightly pleased at the way he had made both girls jump in surprise.


    Getting to her feet, Willow spoke in a great rush. "Oh, sorry about that, professor. I''ll be getting out of your hair." She bent down to kiss Elise on the cheek again. "Eat everything on your plate, kid, especially your vegetables."


    "Sure thing," Elise said, not quite getting the joke that seemed to be in those words.


    The girls then bid each other goodnight, proceedings that Gerver withstood and pretended not to hear. When they''d finished, he escorted Willow out of the clinic. The sight was one of relief and disappointment for Elise ¡ª relief that she didn''t need to be cheerful for some friend she''d forgotten, and disappointment for all her unanswered questions. The rest of her twisted guiltily because the one thing that she didn''t feel was a sense of loss at Willow Travere''s departure. She wriggled down into her covers, intending to feign sleep if Gerver decided to haunt her again.


    Marek arrived before she could get a single wink, wheeling a cart to the side of her bed. Its triple tiers were laden with pitchers of water, milk, lemonade; barnacled by covered bowls, platters, and tureens; bursting with pots of what soon proved to be coffee and tea and hot chocolate. Plates, cups, and a ridiculous number of utensils clattered against one another as he brought it up to her bedside. In short, what he''d collected for one looked like it''d keep a small dinner party of six in a good mood.


    The festivities didn''t end there. He had divested himself of his jacket before he''d got here. Now in shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and a white apron tied at his waist, he held out an arm at the grand affair and gave a little bow.


    "Dinner is served," he said.


    "You''ve got some sense of humor," she said. Her stomach growled, and she looked sheepishly away from him. "Not that you don''t have my thanks, but it''d be a shame to waste all this. Will you join me?"


    He snapped upright. "Thank you," he said, grabbing the nearby chair. He twirled it about, then plonked down to sit the wrong way around. "But no thank you. I''ve already eaten, and I''ve heard that you get quite the appetite when you''re recovering."


    "Have you heard a lot about me?"


    He nodded ¡ª once, twice ¡ª in an exaggerated way. "All kinds of things, most of them terrible."


    That could''ve been serious or a joke. Difficult to tell. She bet on the side of joke, and offered him a small smile. "I must''ve been an interesting person, then."


    His own smile was a mere flicker. "You don''t know the half of it."


    A riposte seemed required, but she could barely think. Her stomach, now awakened, was gnawing on itself. Another growl sounded.


    This didn''t slip by Marek. "Let''s get you fed," he said, and plucked the first silver lid away.


    * * *


    All of it. That was how much she ate. From the roast beef to the salad, straight down to the very last drop of hot chocolate that she paired with the remaining sliver of coconut cake, she ate everything that Marek had brought. She devoured the vegetables, too, just as Willow had advised. Eating all that shouldn''t have been possible, and yet it was. Her appetite had only grown as she moved from dish to dish, plate to plate, cup to cup. Even when licking the sweet crumbs of cake from her fork did her stomach grumble for more.


    But the most amazing thing had to be the way that she felt afterward. She hadn''t risked drinking any more of the silvery medicine no matter how easily it made her pain disappear, so its effects had been wearing off. Aches and pains had steadily reemerged during the meal. Yet each bite or drink of something had soothed her ills. Many faded to a bearable degree. Her legs and hips still felt awful, but the rest of her had little trouble moving comfortably.


    Only when she set down her fork did she notice that Marek was still hanging around, and he''d been joined by another audience member: Gerver. The latter had no lady president of anything with him, which was just as well. Elise''s face already felt like a sidewalk during a hot day.


    She grabbed up the nearest napkin, as much to clean any wayward crumbs from her face as to hide her embarrassment. "S-sorry," she said. "I hadn''t noticed you come back, sir."If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Shaking his head, he waved his hand at her, spreading the smoke of another odious cigarette her way. "It''s a shame I hadn''t returned earlier," he said. "I''ve never seen this part of your ability in action, at least not whilst you were conscious." He drew on his cigarette, then exhaled towards the ceiling, where the drafts unraveled the smoke. "The doctors and nurses did the best they could through gavage feeding, but what can be forced down tubes isn''t the same as proper food."


    It took a moment before she waded through his deluge of words to find his purpose in saying them. Or guess at it, anyway. "What has eating to do with my power?"


    Gerver tapped ashes into the same glass he''d used before, the empty one sitting under the lamp. "A house knocked down by a hurricane can''t be rebuilt from its debris, can it?"


    "It could, but ¡ª" Oh, he actually had a point by being irritating. Her hand dropped into her lap, taking the napkin with it. "It could be rebuilt from the debris, but it wouldn''t be the same and it wouldn''t be as strong."


    "Remarkable." He stopped short of taking another drag. "Not your observation, I mean, but the fact that you can think at all. For a girl who has forgotten herself, the rest of your mind seems wonderfully intact." Her fingers itched to take up the nearest knife before he''d finished that sentence. Perhaps she''d had a murderous gleam in her eyes, for he added, "I''d meant no offense by it."


    Liar. "What happens when you do mean it?"


    Marek, who had been enjoying the conversation, spoke up. "Dogs howl, statues weep, the oceans themselves tremble ..."


    Turning aside into the shadows, Gerver said, "You''ve forgotten the sulfur, Marek."


    "So I have, sir, so I have."


    She settled against her pillows, suddenly and tremendously weary. There were a few things she wanted to get straight before she went to sleep, though. "Miss Travere ¡ª I mean Willow ¡ª she said that you''re responsible for me since I''m in Hall Seven."


    Smoke writhed around him and into the circle of gaslight. "Miss Travere is correct." The tip of his cigarette glowed red, presumably as he inhaled. "As an Overseer, one of seven in the University, I do have added responsibilities that other professors do not."


    Her gaze turned to the photo album now resting to one side of her bed, just as her thoughts turned to the photographs inside those pages. "Do those responsibilities include taking the place of absent family members?"


    His next exhalation sounded suspiciously like a sigh. "I suspect that we both know the answer to that one, Miss Ellsworth."


    Hearing that might''ve hurt if she still had her memories. Without them, it was only a statement of fact. This man had the authority to act as her guardian in the stead of her adoptive parents, and that was that. "I''m sorry if I''ve troubled you," she said.


    The ember winked. "Do I seem troubled?"


    "You''re a professor and in charge of the University''s security. Of course I''m troubling you."


    Mischief danced in Marek''s eyes. "Old Gerver here is a man of many talents, some of them useful. One more challenge is nothing to him."


    This remark seemed to go unheard by Gerver. "Our town is a very safe place when young women aren''t falling down staircases, so I ordinarily have the delightful task of teaching students like yourself how not to die." He paused for another puff of his cigarette. "That is a roundabout way of saying that you can''t trouble me anymore than I''m already troubled on a daily basis."


    She pulled her blankets up to her chin. Although something deep within her said that falling asleep like this in front of two strange men had to be inappropriate, she didn''t much care. Her hunger had been sated, her pain had faded, and now sleep called to her. Wrapped in the soft cotton of exhaustion, she was inured even to Gerver''s rudeness. "That doesn''t sound very safe to me."


    He shifted enough for the light to fall on his ghastly face. His visible eye looked like a single silver coin frozen mid-tumble through the air. "Being Extraordinary can turn a person into a sword and the hand holding it at the same time," he said. "One must learn how to wield such a blade if one is to control it at all." His words traced her deep into her drowsiness, letting her eyes flutter closed. It must''ve been familiar to part of her, that voice, if she could feel at such ease in its presence. "Learning when to sheath that weapon is equally important as learning to strike with it." He paused, perhaps to finish off that dreadful cigarette of his. "I teach more conventional methods of combat and defense, of course, but that''s not nearly as exciting as the other kind."


    "All that fighting," she murmured, then yawned. "Every boy in school must have your class as his favorite."


    "Not just the boys." He sounded very far away now. "You''ve earned top marks in my course since you first started it. Not in close combat, that isn''t your forte ¡ª you''ll always be bested at your size ¡ª but with firearms or more interesting weapons, you can be counted as one of my more brilliant students."


    Marek''s voice floated into her ear. "Translating that to American, you''re a real pistol, Ellsworth."


    She cracked an eye open, catching his wry face, then Gerver''s much more sober one. The professor had stepped into the edge of the gaslight again so he could check his pocket watch. "With all that said," continued Gerver, "you must now steel yourself. It shan''t be long before the president arrives."


    He kept talking, but she scarcely heard him. When she woke in the morning, it was to the soft noise and chatter of nurses in starched white uniforms. They brought her more food, but that breakfast didn''t taste nearly as good as the feast she''d been given after midnight by two sideshow specimens. Afterward, when she''d kept her hunger at bay for another few hours, she read the books and papers that had been left on the bedside table. On the very top of this formidable stack was a note from Marek telling her that he''d given her his notes from last year, along with all the assignments she''d missed. Being a sophomore, he''d already gone through all the courses she''d be taking this time around. Gerver, he''d written, had asked him to help her. He said he would''ve done it anyway, just because he needed a new hobby.


    It wasn''t quite an overture of friendship, but it made her smile all the same.

 No Accident 9

    Five days passed before she was allowed her escape. The clinic doctor had declared her fit enough to leave after extensive tests and questions. Her legs still didn''t allow her to stand for very long periods, so she''d have to push herself about in a wheelchair. The nurses helped her into it the same as they''d helped her bathe and dress, without fanfare or comment. Wearing clothes ¡ª a uniform, especially ¡ª felt strange after spending so long a time in nightgowns. She waited in her chair for the person who''d be escorting her, picking at the dove-grey wool of her skirt and trying not to hate the heaviness of it. The nurses had insisted she dress in her winter-weight uniform, however; the weather had started to turn towards fall this last week.


    When the hour turned to seven o''clock, she took to glancing at herself in the tall standing mirror that one of the nurses had brought by, trying to memorize her own face. What stood out to her most was the eyes with the generous lids and the ghostly pink-white face above the navy of her blazer. The rest of the uniform, from the goldenrod cardigan vest to the stockings on her legs, seemed a little loose on her. She must''ve lost weight since being in the clinic.


    "Don''t worry, dear," said one of the nurses, as she neared Elise''s bed. "You''ll fill out soon enough."


    A furious heat seeped into Elise, one that showed in her reflection. She rubbed at her cheeks. "When did you say my escort was coming, miss?"


    "Soon, just in time to whisk you off to breakfast."


    That proved to be the truth, and a terrible one. The person who came for her on September the eighteenth was not Willow Travere, as she''d been hoping, but Professor Gerver. He emerged into view around the end of her bed, his long, black coat hanging about him like the robes of the Grim Reaper. If only he''d been as chalk white as he''d looked in the dark! The light of morning shone harshly on the plains of his corpse-grey face and his nearly colorless eyes, picking out the blackened veins within his flesh like polluted, glistening rivers in an aerial photograph. But that wasn''t the worst part. Whatever had turned him Extraordinary had also left him the remnants of a former handsomeness. To look at him was to look at a proud, beautiful ruin half sunk into a swamp. How horrible it had to be for him to go around looking like that.


    "Sorry to crush your spirits, Miss Ellsworth," he said, and she fixed her eyes to the hands folded in her lap, "but I am still your acting guardian, and thus it is my duty to shuffle you about after a stay in the clinic."


    Her hands tightened together. "Have you ever stopped?" she said. "Acting as my guardian? Have you been watching over me the entire time I''ve been injured?"


    He inched closer to her wheelchair. "Would you like me to lie?"


    She shook her head.


    "Then my answer is no, I''ve never stopped." His words struck her so hard that they may as well have been a physical blow. More came, each more painful than the last. "I''ve been your guardian since you''ve started university, and I have no doubt that I shall remain so until you leave."


    Elise forced herself to breathe. The ache in her heart wasn''t from missing a family she couldn''t remember, but from the acute loneliness of her situation, and the loneliness of the girl she''d been before. The Ellsworths hadn''t cared enough about her to participate in her recovery. They''d just left it up to a stranger. Worse, they''d left her to him since she''d first come to Rambling a year ago. She felt sorry for their so-called daughter, and sorry for herself. Other than Willow, no one seemed to be close to her. She craned her neck up and met Gerver''s gaze, where something dangerously close to sympathy lurked. The emotion looked alien on him, yet the sight warmed her. It''d been cruel of her to judge his looks in the way that she had done only moments ago. No matter what he looked like, he was still human, and one of the few who seemed to be concerned about her well-being. That he''d done it out of duty didn''t matter ¡ª he did what he had to do. That was more than certain other people could say.


    "Thank you," she said, pushing the words through the pinhole of her throat, "for being truthful."


    Gerver nodded, looking distinctly uncomfortable at her gratitude ¡ª or maybe only uncomfortable at the sincerity of it. He got round to the back of her wheelchair, and took hold of it. They journeyed in silence out of the stark white clinic into a large column-lined corridor that looked as if it belonged in a grand and ancient country estate somewhere overseas. Paintings hung on the emerald wallpaper above the dark wainscoting, so many of them that she''d hardly looked at one before another came into view. Occasionally, a statue or bust on pedestal broke up the clutter of still lifes and portraits. Globes of gaslights that protruded from the walls in regular intervals, flickering into life as they moved under them. The corridor was so long that the windows at either end didn''t let in enough natural light to illuminate its considerable middle. Here and there were differently colored doors that gave no hint of the rooms behind them.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    "The clinic," Gerver began, making her jump in surprise, "is on the southern end of the ground floor ¡ª the first floor, if you wish to be American about it." He pushed her chair at a leisurely pace, one reflected in the languid tone of his voice. "At the northern end are the president and vice president''s offices. Our destination is at the very center."


    "What''s at the center, sir?" she said. The huge corridor seemed to swallow her words.


    "Marek must''ve neglected to give you a map to go along with all those books," he said, with a touch of annoyance. He gave a real answer, though, after a brief pause. "The Refectory is at the center. It''s the University''s canteen ¡ª that is to say, dining hall. Your friends should likely be there. Even if they''re not, your fellows of Hall Seven are. They should help situate you well enough, and if they don''t, well, your friends shall do so."


    Apprehension fluttered in her stomach. Would she really be left to her own devices so quickly?


    "You''ll adapt," he said. "What frightens you now shall be routine later." His pace slowed the slightest bit. "But do remember to see me if you have any trouble, for I''ll do my best to help you."


    "Because you''re my Hall Overseer."


    "Hall Overseer, professor, Chief of Security, I am many things, as we''ve established."


    The wheels of her chair sounded enormous as they turned beneath her on the black marble floor. "It seems unfair to give one person so many duties."


    He made a noise that might''ve been a stillborn laugh. "Fairness has little to do with it, and capability everything."


    "I don''t understand what you mean," she said, burning with shame and frustration. Why did he have to be so tricky with his words? Couldn''t he see what trouble he was giving her? Or did he see it, and decided that he didn''t care?


    If he felt any of his own frustration over her clueless state, he didn''t give it away. "I''ve been given so many duties because I can execute them," he said. "Besides, my role as the Chief of Security is largely ornamental."


    "Because the town is so safe?"


    "That''s certainly one way to phrase it."


    He slowed almost to a crawl when they reached a pair of large black doors to their right. These doors opened by themselves upon a room so massive that it could have held the clinic twice over ¡ª four times over if stacked side to side and top to bottom. Chocolate-colored wood panels covered the walls all the way up to the domed ceiling, the latter of which was constructed of wrought iron and green glass, save for the very center where a clear circular window looked out onto the sky. The floor was of white marble like that in the clinic. The combination of colors made the Refectory look like nothing less than the world''s strangest forest sprouting out of snow. Nine tables totals lined the room like fields of bizarre flowers that had human faces. To the very left and very right were two tables occupied by older men and women who must''ve been professors or staff. The seven tables in the very center contained only students.


    And all of them were very loud. Voices rose and fell between the clatter of cutlery and dishes, an ocean of sound that crashed over Elise.


    "The farthest left table is where the staff sits," Gerver said over the din. "The president and vice president of Rambling are both there tonight, at the center."


    Two people sat at the very center of the table, one a man and the other a small woman. Her attention was inevitably drawn to the woman, for her carefully coiffed hair was the very color of violets. She wore an ivory women''s suit that made her stand out against the rich interior of the grand room. Her gaze found Elise''s even at a great distance, as if she''d sensed the girl looking


    "Is that her?" Elise said, but she already knew. "Rambling''s president?"


    "Yes," Gerver said, "that is the one and only President Wong." The chair veered to the right of the Refectory. "At the far end ahead is the professors'' table, where I sit meals. Between Scylla and Charybdis are the student tables, numbered for their Halls."


    As the two of them passed by the nearest, she caught sight of a glinting brass oval attached to the end of it, hanging down like a shop sign. It was embossed with the number five. Students quieted as they craned round to stare at Elise and her escort. She focused her eyes on her lap again, unable to bear the scrutiny. Gerver brought her all the way to the table with a seven on its brass marker. He curtly commanded the students at the very end one of the long benches to "budge over," which they scrambled to do.


    "Shall you have any trouble seating yourself?" he said to her.


    If she said yes, she had little doubt that he''d lug her onto the bench in the name of responsibility. That couldn''t happen. She quickly shook her head. "I''ve practiced," she said. "Getting in and out of the chair."


    He waited until she proved this statement, watching her haul herself from wheelchair to bench. The only reply he gave to her efforts was a small nod, and then he headed to the professors'' table to the right of Hall Seven''s, where he deposited himself between two rather startled colleagues who''d been chattering away.

 No Accident 10

    Elise ignored the curiosity of fellow students in favor of asking them to pass her food ¡ª her stomach had started complaining as soon as she''d been close enough to smell breakfast. She piled her plate high with flapjacks, bacon, and ham; she took too many servings of scrambled eggs, fried eggs, soft-boiled eggs; she poured orange juice into one glass and milk into another; she selected four different kinds of toast, slathering them with butter and honey or jam.


    This feast went into her mouth and down her gullet in hurried, methodical bites. By the time she''d finished her first helping, half the students at her table had yet to finish theirs. The food eased some of her tension, but not all. Elise Ellsworth had friends and those friends didn''t seem to be waiting for her. Worry coiled inside her. Where could they be? Did they not care that she''d returned? Were they as cold as her family was, abandoning her in a time of need? Where was Willow? The coil tightened.


    A chime rang. She twisted around, following the source of that noise to the staff table in the distance behind her. The president had stood from her seat, the white of her clothes burning in the daylight filtering from above.


    "If I may have your attention," she said, in a voice that somehow carried through to where Elise sat, "I should like to say a few words on this special occasion." Her face seemed to focus on Elise for a moment. "And make no mistake, today is a very special occasion."


    The muttering in the Refectory turned to a hushed buzz.


    President Wong spoke. "As I''m sure you have all noticed, Miss Elise Ellsworth has returned to us this morning in renewed health ¡ª"


    Elise sank down as hundreds of stares shifted her way. As always seemed to be the case when embarrassed, her face grew hot. Her pounding heartbeat drowned out most of what Wong next said. She caught a word here and there, but not much else. Fixing her gaze on the wall behind the president, she could''ve been mistaken for paying attention. Her stomach gurgled impatiently at the interruption, though.


    When Wong finished speaking, she insisted that everyone clap to give Elise a hearty welcome. Elise''s face was no longer just hot: it burned. The clapping had been so anemic at Hall Seven''s table that it merited ¡ª by presidential decree ¡ª a second and more enthusiastic round of torture. The fire crept towards Elise''s chest. The president wasn''t without mercy, thankfully. Once the applause finished, she told everyone to hurry along with their breakfasts, as lingering inside would be a waste of what promised to be a pleasant September Saturday.


    No need for Elise to be told twice. She dug back into her food, eating as fast as propriety allowed. A neighboring student had just passed the flapjacks to her again when the inevitable interruption struck.


    "I just don''t understand it," said a loud girl down her side of the table. "The first one, well, who didn''t have it out for that <em class="western">thing? But Ellsworth? Why risk it?"


    "Well, it''s obvious, isn''t it?" answered an obnoxious, cultured voice from the other side of the table. The girl who owned it looked a bit like a fashionable crane, with her beaky nose and narrow build. Her eyes were so dark they looked black. She smiled when she noticed Elise looking her way. Her face might''ve been arresting if she ever managed to blunt her sharp cruelty. "Someone is after Rambling''s trash. Throwing it over the stairs isn''t all that effective, but it''s a clear effort to clean up this town."


    The message couldn''t have been clearer. Elise didn''t flinch. She didn''t push away from the table or sneer or grow teary-eyed. To do anything like that would''ve been to show weakness, and she wasn''t weak. Instead, she pretended that anger wasn''t roiling sickly inside her and speared some eggs with her fork.


    "It''s for the best, really," the crane-girl continued. "Upstarts should know their place." The golden-haired young man at her elbow plucked on the sleeve of her cardigan, whispering something to her. She shook him off. A smug smile crept over her thin face. "And those who share sympathies with Addies, well, they''re the worst of the worst. Just look at Ellswor ¡ª"


    "You''re wrong, Adesso."


    Now that was a familiar voice. It was a little huskier than it''d been the other night, almost rasping, but Elise knew it. Marek had spoken. She leaned forward so that she could see him; only three people separated the two of them.


    The Adesso girl sniffed disdainfully and turned her hateful gaze on the boy who''d dared interrupt her. "Please, you''re only saying that to defend yourself."


    He said, "I defend the truth, and the truth of it is that you''re wrong." Marek looked little different by day than he had by night. Paler, perhaps, his skin like unblemished pinkish-white stone under the morning sunlight. The only unusual thing was his lack of eyeglasses.


    "Oh, keep going," Adesso said, "this should make me laugh."


    Marek, who had a slim book in one hand and a fork in the other, went on without looking away from his page. "First," he said, "Ellsworth is a natural Ex. Second, the other girl, she was an Addy." He set his fork aside to pick up a piece of toast. "And third, Addy sympathies are a stretch as a motive for murder, attempted or otherwise." He finally looked at Adesso, said, "To put it in smaller, more understandable words: you''re wrong," and tore off the corner of his toast with fine, white teeth.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    What other girl? No one had told Elise about another girl. She set her fork down, all desire to eat gone.


    Adesso rolled her eyes so theatrically that it looked as if they might keep on spinning forever. Others at the table, though, they had been listening to Marek. Some of them looked as if they agreed with him, or at least found him funny.


    The golden-haired boy next to Adesso spoke. "Stop talking," he said. "You sound more like an ass than you usually do."


    Snapping his book shut one-handed, Marek straightened up. "You should work on your insults, Romilly. I''ve heard better ones." His hand retreated with the book, and returned seconds after without it. Maybe he''d put it in a pocket. He chewed up another mouthful of toast. "As I was saying before I''d been rudely interrupted, Adesso is wrong, wrong, wrong, which, of course is what usually happens when she opens her gaping maw" ¡ª his mouth twitched ¡ª ''''apart from the times that she has something stuck in it."


    Snickers rippled along both sides of the table, as did gasps. Elise couldn''t remember who she was, but she certainly knew what Marek had been implying. No matter how awful Adesso was, there were certain things that you just couldn''t say about a girl. But part of Elise smiled inside at what he''d done.


    Romilly thumped his coffee cup down, shaking the utensils beside his plate. "I''m warning you, Marek."


    The last of the toast disappeared into Marek''s mouth. When he''d finished it, his lips pressed together into what might''ve been a smile. "It''s more likely that the victims were targeted for their looks, not how they got their powers." He trailed his fingers over the napkin he''d left on the table next to his plate. "Slender, pale, dark-haired." His gaze, green as a cat''s, flickered toward Elise. "If there''s a killer, he has a type."


    Elise drew in a harsh breath. This was more than any hints Marek or Gerver had given her. People thought someone had tried to murder her, and felt comfortable enough about the idea to openly discuss it over breakfast. There''d been more than just her, too. Another girl, one who sounded like she <em class="western">had been murdered, not just the victim of an accident. Everyone referred to that nameless "victim" in past tense, so something terrible must''ve happened. Elise hadn''t been given a single clue about that, not by anyone, not until now. And Marek, he didn''t sound like he had when he had helped her out all those nights ago. Sure, he was standing up for her, but he seemed so different now, so inhumane, discussing her as if she wasn''t right there listening.


    She returned his gaze, waiting for him to show the faintest bit of warmth. He turned back to his book without giving her any. Stabbing her with the nearest bread knife would''ve been kinder.


    Suddenly bloodless beneath his pale pink skin, Romilly stood. "I''ve lost my appetite." He threw his napkin down on his plate.


    "You seem to lose a lot of things," Marek said, with a malicious gleam in his eye.


    Romilly slammed his fists onto the table. His nostrils flared. "You son of a bi ¡ª"


    Something touched Elise''s shoulder and she cried out. Everyone looked at her again, but this hardly mattered. A new boy with camera around his neck and a mop of dark, curly hair had come out of nowhere to get her attention. He dropped his hand from her shoulder apologetically.


    "Who are you?" she blurted.


    "Sorry about that," he said. "Willow had warned me about your memory, but I didn''t think ..." He shook his head, and stuck his hand out at her again. "I''m Ian, Ian Sherman. We both work on the <em class="western">Herald, Rambling''s newspaper."


    He looked nice. Harmless, even. If she could stand, she wouldn''t have had to look very far up to meet his warm brown gaze. "We''re friends?" she said, just as someone at the table started whispering about amnesia, that they''d heard rumors, but hadn''t thought that Ellsworth had really lost her mind.


    "Yep," he said. "Gerver sent a nurse by the newsroom to tell us you''d finally been sprung from the cooler."


    She glanced at Marek, trying to see his reaction, but he was gone. Her gaze sought and found Gerver at the next table over; the professor nodded at her once, then continued pushing food around his plate. She examined Ian''s face again, hunting for any sign of a lie. The only thing she found was a scattering of freckles on his light brown skin.


    "Are you sure we''re really friends?" she said, just in case.


    "Surer than sure." Ian smiled. "You''re one of my favorite people, Ellie."


    Across the table, Adesso pretended to retch. Some of the other girls on her side tittered at the act. Not for long, though. Romilly dropped back into his spot beside her. "Stop it," he told her, "you''re worse than Tucker with all those lousy jokes, Abriana."


    Adesso bristled. "Tucker! I''m nothing like that worthless little tart."


    "I meant her brother."


    Ian laughed. He had the good sense to turn his mirth into a cough. "C''mon," he told Elise, as Adesso and Romilly continued to argue, "let''s agitate the gravel. Everyone''s waiting for your happy return."


    No matter how nice he seemed, she still hesitated. "Why aren''t they here?"


    He made no attempt to hide his embarrassment. "Uh, we didn''t know you''d be leaving the clinic today. We''re neck-deep in deadlines and arguments right now, too. And, to be honest, I didn''t tell anyone what the nurse said and made my way down here for a little peace and quiet." Her skepticism must''ve been obvious, because he added more. "I know it''s gotta be hard for you to believe me, so let me show you something."


    From an inside pocket of his navy blue uniform jacket, he removed a wallet. Inside it was a photograph of six people crammed in close to a camera, grinning or pulling faces. She recognized Ian, Willow, and herself ¡ª that last one only through many minutes spent gazing in mirrors trying to make her reflection seem less like a stranger. As for the three other people, she had no idea who they were. But in the photo, Ian had an arm slung around one of her shoulders and she had looked happy. If they hadn''t been friends, she didn''t know what they had been.


    "Okay," she said, "let''s go."


    Getting back into her wheelchair brought more attention on her. She pretended not to see it, and eventually got off the bench. Ian offered to push her along, but she told him that it was all right ¡ª she needed to get used to doing things for herself. And so she did, all the way out of the Refectory.

 No Accident 11

    They left the noise and stares of the Refectory behind, heading into a smaller side corridor that lead into the belly of the building. Softly hissing gaslights lit their way, not daylight. They were far from any windows here. The green wallpaper that this corridor held in common with the main one gradually darkened into a blue so deep that it seemed black. It grew steadily lighter as the two of them progressed, as if they had taken a plunge deep down into the sea and had only now begun to kick their way back up to the surface. Funny, that she could remember the sea while forgetting herself.


    The blue of the walls shifted to the shade of a midday sky, one accompanied by the topmost branches of trees. Between the boughs flitted bright birds. Puffy clouds skirted by in a wind that she could not feel. Yet she could almost taste spring air filled with flowers, almost hear the breeze stirring leaves together, almost feel grass bending beneath her feet. A closer look, she needed a closer look. Her hands propelled her to the wall on her right, then stopped her short of it. She leaned forward, dangerously close to sliding out of her chair. What color could that bird be there, the one hopping from branch to branch in what looked like a cherry tree? Violet or indigo? If she moved just a little closer, she might be able to tell.


    "Everything okay?"


    She jerked in place, startled. Ian leaned down towards her, his face full of concern. He''d come to her without making a sound ¡ª or worse, without her having heard him. Her fingers darted for her pendant, which wasn''t there. She had put it under her blouse when getting dressed. They itched to stroke that piece of gold and jet. Instead, she contented herself by tracing a finger around the pin in her tie, tracing the numeral seven embossed there. Seven for Hall Seven. "Yes," she said, "everything''s fine." She flicked her wary gaze to the wall. Nothing moved there now. "Do they always do that?"


    "Huh?" He followed her stare. "Oh, yeah, Rambling has all kinds of neat tricks. Sorry I didn''t warn you, considering your head and everything."


    <em class="western">Neat wasn''t the right word. "Are they harmless, those tricks?"


    "Yeah."


    The way that wall had drawn her forward, the way that it had made her forget anything else existed hadn''t seemed harmless, but Ian spoke with such earnestness that he must''ve been telling the truth. He didn''t have the sharp, mercurial temperament of Marek, or the cool, sarcastic one of Gerver. His face seemed as open as a book. More importantly, he''d shown her photographic proof they''d known each other. They were friends. "Then it''s all right." She made herself smile despite her lingering unease. "So, where are we going?"Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    She hadn''t asked before, because the answer had seemed likely: the newsroom. He <em class="western">had just left the place.


    "The kitchens," he said. When he got behind her wheelchair to push, she didn''t stop him. He turned her back to the direction they''d been heading, then started off. "None of us had time to come down for breakfast, so I thought it''d be best if we brought some." He picked up the pace until they headed along at a comfortable stroll. "Having something to eat will keep everyone from arguing for a few minutes, at least."


    "Do all of you argue a lot?" She winced. Spoken aloud, the question sounded rude.


    Ian didn''t seem to mind, because his voice sounded light as he spoke. "Everyone argues sometimes," he said. "We do a bit more of it because of the paper."


    The walls on either side of them grew lighter above the wainscoting, filling with pale clouds. None moved. "You''d said something about us working on a paper before, hadn''t you?"


    "Sure did."


    Such a little fact cheered her. Elise Ellsworth had more than just schoolwork and classes in her life. That made the newsroom worth seeing. If she''d found it important before, she might find it important now.


    The two of them came upon a narrow corridor not far from the Refectory. It led directly into the kitchens, a vast room of grey stone, huge stoves, and massive smoke-stained fireplaces that ran three aisles deep. Dirty dishes filled half of the dozen sinks. At a large table on the far end of the room sat the staff, busy with their own breakfast. They knew Ian by sight, and allowed him to borrow a large basket, into which he and Elise put a variety of food that would travel well ¡ª bacon and toast re-purposed into sandwiches full of lettuce and tomatoes, and slathered with mustard and mayonnaise; cold cuts and cheese assembled into yet more sandwiches; great helpings of yesterday''s salt and pepper potato chips; and, for desert, blackberry hand pies.


    "This is more lunch than breakfast," Elise said, folding up one of the last sandwiches they''d assembled in wax paper.


    Ian, standing next to her by the counter in the middle aisle, grabbed up the sandwich she''d finished and put it in the basket. "The kind of breakfast that you shouldn''t have is usually the best kind of breakfast."


    She wasn''t sure of that, but she was willing to test the statement. They soon left the kitchens behind, journeying through the labyrinthine manor to an old elevator with a brass gate on it. This took them straight up to the third story, its gears clattering and complaining every inch upward. Elise clenched her hands tight on the basket during the whole ride, and kept them there well after they fled the contraption. Their destination proved to be a few corridors away from the elevator, behind a door with frosted pebbled glass on the upper third. There stood the words RAMBLING HERALD''S HEADQUARTERS in stark black letters. Ian opened the door for her.

 No Accident 12

    A torrent of noise spun into the corridor before Elise even passed inside. She would''ve clapped her hands over her ears if they weren''t on the wheels of her chair. No one inside noticed her entry. People sat at a long table in the middle of the L-shaped room, three of the four faces from the photograph Ian had shown her earlier. A girl with pale blue hair that could''ve been mistaken for an unearthly shade of blond sat at the center, surrounded by a whorl of paper butterflies that occasionally strayed off. They sounded like a hundred books being flipped through at once. The half a dozen pens scribbling over half a dozen papers, with no hand to hold them, nearly met that noise in strength.


    At the far left of the table, a boy of twenty or so snatched one of the butterflies out of the air, and crushed it in his hand. "Stella," he said, to the blue-haired girl, "it''s impossible to work like this."


    Eyes on the paper she corrected with a blue pen, Stella said, "If it''s impossible, then how am I working like this?"


    "You''re abnormal, that''s how."


    "You should consider abnormality. Then you might be on time with your assignments." She delivered this lightly, as if giving an admonition had been the last thing on her mind.


    His forehead furrowed beneath his stylish pompadour of dark blond hair. "Really?" he said. "Would that make me work as quickly as you do? Because all I can see from here is miles of unanswered advice columns."


    She pursed her lips as she began to read what looked like a very long paragraph. "I''ll get to them when I get to them."


    He threw the crushed paper butterfly onto the table, groaning. It twitched weakly where it''d landed. "We need another writer to handle things."


    Stella crossed out several sentences. "No one does the work of Miss Answering except for Miss Answering."


    "Forget Miss Answering. We''re short on writers and long on work."


    Willow, who sat on the far right of the table, balled up several pieces of paper, then pitched them behind her without looking. They fell straight down from the far wall into a small waste bin, bounced off the lid, and hit the floor to join an impressive mound of yet more paper. "I swear, if I see one more letter from that ''Lady Thorne'' girl," she said, "the <em class="western">Herald might soon be down three writers instead of just two."


    "Lady what?" said the boy.


    "You know, the gal who''s obsessed with that Tarian Marek." Willow''s nose wrinkled in distaste. "He''s all right to look at, I guess, if you don''t mind the hair, but he''s weird beneath the smiles and politeness." She leant back in her chair, stretching out her arms. "Doesn''t look twice at girls. Doesn''t look twice at guys, either, so he doesn''t seem inverted or anything. But what kind of fella doesn''t care for anyone?"


    Stella said, "A bachelor."


    "Count on you to answer the unanswerable, darling."


    Tapping her blue pen against her chin, Stella looked deep in thought. "Answering the unanswerable," she mused. "Say, that''s a good one. Maybe Miss Answering could use it as a catchphrase."


    "Miss Answering could use a lot of things," Willow said, with a mischievous look, but her friendly barb went seemingly unnoticed. She folded her arms behind her head, stretching her neck this time. "Of course, Lady Thorne''s nothing compared to the work I''ve got in my future ¡ª Jack brought up my dance idea at the last Underseers'' meeting, and everyone liked it."


    "I thought you wanted everyone to like it?"


    Willow signed, then finished stretching. "I do, but not when we''re so darned busy. And that''s not even counting the end-of-the-year ordeal ..."


    "Lady Thorne." The blond-haired boy nibbled on the end of his pen. "Was she that nutty gal who tried to have us publish that anonymous marriage proposal to Marek last year?"


    "No, she''s the one who wanted us to publish that wretched poem about his eyes." Willow looked sick to her stomach. "Who rhymes ''jade'' with ''jade,'' anyway?"


    He flung his pen onto the table. "People with no taste, that''s who." Turning his head side to side, he popped his neck. "I say we get rid of whatever she sends us."


    Ian edged around Elise''s wheelchair, then plucked the basket off her lap. He set it down carefully on a table near the door. The conversation seemed to interest him as much as it interested her. They had a good view of the show, too; the entryway they stood in formed the small leg of the L-shaped room and kept them somewhat out of sight.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    "We can''t just throw out what we''re sent, Ash," Willow said, smoothing out the letter she had set in front of her. "There are rules. As a publication dedicated to serious journalism, we mus ¡ª"


    The boy Ash lifted a hand, then flicked his fingers at the letter. Little green shoots sprung out of it, unfurling skyward with green leaves. They grew several inches high before stopping. Branches spiked out of their browning trunks, bursting with green needles. The miniature forest grew dense and lovely in its field of paper. "There," he said, lowering his hand, "we haven''t thrown it out, but it''s gone."


    "My hero," she said, with half-mocking praise.


    A smile emerged in his olive-toned face. "Yours and everyone else''s, too."


    Ian took up the camera around his neck, aimed, and pressed the shutter. The click drew the attention of everyone at the table, even through the sound of the butterflies. But it was the sight of Elise that pushed them out of their chairs. They stared wide-eyed at her, as if they''d never seen her before.


    "Hello," she said, her voice coming out smaller than she''d intended.


    Willow got around the table, hugging Elise before anyone else could beat her to it. "You''re back!" she said. "Why didn''t you tell anyone you''d be back?"


    "The clinic let her go just this morning," Ian said, passing behind Willow with the basket once more on his arm. "Gerver sent someone by with a note while all of you were having that argument about headline sizes, and I went to find her downstairs." He noticed Elise''s pleading look and set the basket onto the big table. "Might want to stop squeezing, Will. Wouldn''t want to send her back to the clinic so soon."


    The arms around Elise loosened without dropping. Ash pressed in next, not for a hug, but to set a hand briefly on her shoulder. "Glad you''re back, Ellie," he said. "We''ve had a hard time of things with you gone."


    She didn''t know him from Adam, but it didn''t take a genius to interpret the warmth in his voice. Another face swam into view on the other side of Willow, one that came with a set of wide blue eyes that stared at Elise without blinking. "It''s good to see you again," Stella said. "I tried to send you a bouquet of cookies while you were in the clinic, but the nurses said it wasn''t sanitary." She blinked, finally. "They said we couldn''t visit you, either, and became especially insistent on that point when they caught me trying to sneak in." She whispered, "They confiscated the cookies."


    Gratefulness inundated Elise. She hadn''t been abandoned, at least not by these people she''d once called friends. They''d cared for her, worried over her, wanted her back among them. "Thank you," she said, finally looping her arms around Willow. Hugging someone and being hugged at the same time felt so nice. "Thank you, all of you, for being so kind."


    The boys looked embarrassed over that praise, but Willow didn''t. Stella frowned, however. "Friends are supposed to be kind," she said, as if explaining a very difficult concept to a small child. Her expression turned thoughtful. "Unless they''ve been having an argument, then they might be mean."


    Elise leaned back a bit from Willow to take a better look at Stella. The other girl was a bit odder than she''d appeared a first sight ¡ª not only for the color of her hair, but the faint blue shapes patterning her pinkish skin. These designs appeared to swirl and shift like smoke. It was difficult to decide if they were fascinating or unnerving. Both, perhaps. "Um, I suppose that''s true," Elise said, since Stella kept staring at her.


    "Okay, let''s get to breakfast before we scare Ellie off," Willow said. "What did you two dig up, anyway?"


    "Sandwiches, potato salad, and pie," Ian answered. "Nothing to drink, though; I figured we could have coffee. We need it."


    "A feast fit for royalty!"


    "How could it be anything else, with Queen Willow presiding over the court?"


    This sort of banter seemed normal, and Elise found herself relaxing. No one treated anyone with formality, coldness, or cruelty here. They were equals even after having disagreements. Willow told her to sit the table while everyone else prepared the meal. Elise protested, saying that she could help. The others brushed off her offer as nonsense, leaving her to watch while Stella and Ian cleared and set the table. Ash and Willow brought mugs and the coffee pot from the far side of the room, bringing over sugar and a brown glass jar of ... something.


    "Homemade coffee creamer," Willow explained, upon seeing Elise''s look. "It''s powdered."


    That certainly hadn''t been on the tables in the Refectory, and while Elise had heard of cream or milk going in coffee she''d never heard of anything called creamer. She probably had her memory to blame for that. "How does it taste?"


    "Better than that junk they sell at the market. Just some nonfat dry milk, a smidge of oil, and a little vanilla sugar." Willow shook the jar. "I make that last one myself, with vanilla pods and everything."


    Elise''s stomach betrayed her with a hungry gurgle. She had no idea how vanilla sugar tasted, but it sounded delicious. The food was finally freed from the picnic basket. She ate this new breakfast with more gusto than the first one in the Refectory, eating double portions of everything, except for the hand pies. Four of those disappeared thanks to her. Her stomach finally quieted over her third cup of coffee. She took a sip. The creamer tasted good, and she''d used plenty of it. "Has this room always been a disaster?"she said.


    Yet another mistake. She cringed, waiting for the inevitable ire to show on the faces around her. Speaking before thinking had become a bad habit of hers. Maybe she''d always had it.


    The fear proved unwarranted. No one looked bothered by what she''d said.


    "Yeah," Ash said, "and it can''t be anything except a disaster thanks to our workload." He took a long drink of his coffee, to which he''d liberally added creamer, too. "You''re back, though, and that means I don''t have to do the boring stuff anymore."


    Willow made a face at him. A very disapproving one.


    "What?" he said. "It''s true. I''m no editor, not like Elise is, or ... or, uh ..." He drank hastily from his mug. "Anyway, the point is that I''m no good at doing that line by line stuff. But even with Elise back, we still need to talk about a replacement. There''s another empty spot at this table, after all."


    Only Elise looked at that empty chair. It sat straight across from another empty chair that had a piece of yellowed paper with her name pasted onto the top of the wooden backrest. The other chair had a different name on it, an unsurprisingly unfamiliar one.


    "Who''s Charlotte Cooke?" she said.

 No Accident 13

    The others looked at one another. She endured this silent communication of theirs much as a traveler on a cold night endured glimpses of warm people through the windows of their houses; although she could see them, she was not part of them. But an explanation came from the unlikeliest source ¡ª herself. Not long after she''d said the name Charlotte, she smelled a sweet rush of perfume, sandalwood under jasmine. She saw a crazy mass of wavy red-brown hair barely held in place by pins. She saw a sweet round face and warm brown eyes. She saw a girl broken at the foot of a huge staircase that spiraled up into the dark. And the blood, oh, God, the blood. So much of it.


    More memories followed, scattering like shards of broken glass across a floor.


    <em class="western">Elise, sprawled on grass<em class="western"> outside a small school<em class="western">, her backside and legs throbbing with pain. Girls encircled her, jeering. Abriana Adesso led the pack of them, grinning like a wolf. She looked all of fourteen and vicious.


    <em class="western">"Wh-why are you doing this?" Elise said. "Why?<em class="western">"


    <em class="western">Predator stalked towards prey<em class="western">. She shrank back. Another kick would come this time, or maybe a slap. They liked to slap, because they thought it didn''t matter. But it did matter, it did! Just because she wouldn''t stay bruised for long didn''t mean it wouldn''t hurt.


    <em class="western">Fire sprang up in the grass, catching on fallen leaves. The jets of flame rose until they towered over Adesso.


    <em class="western">A clear voice rang out. "What do you think you''re doing?"Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    <em class="western">Disbelief and hope<em class="western"> coursed through Elise. She looked over her shoulder to the one who''d saved her<em class="western"> and saw a girl haloed by wild curls.


    Each new shard cut more deeply than the last one had.


    <em class="western">A hand held out in friendship. <em class="western">Air that smelled of smoke. Lips that parted in a smile. <em class="western">"I''m Charlotte Cooke," <em class="western">said the girl, no anger in her voice now<em class="western">. "And you are?"


    But Elise kept picking them up. Was incapable of not doing so. And, God, how they hurt.


    <em class="western">The coffin looked beautiful. It was wrong for something like that to look beautiful. A deep glossy brown, with such much red in it. Like Charlotte''s hair. And the flowers, she would''ve loved the flowers. Not white lilies, but a profusion of colorful, unfamiliar blossoms that burned in the pale morning light. Ash, he must''ve grown them<em class="western"> just for this, just for her.


    <em class="western">They were beautiful, too, these flowers, and Elise longed to rip apart their petals and their leaves and their stems until her fingers bled.


    The shards stopped falling. Some of them had contained memories that didn''t involve Charlotte ¡ª grammar books, blue pens, struck out sentences ¡ª but Elise couldn''t think of them right now. She gasped at the pain of her sudden, yet old loss. Her stomach rolled, threatening to send her breakfast into her throat. Someone rushed to her side at once, joined by the others.


    "What''s wrong?" Willow said. She took Elise''s face in her hands. They felt so warm. "Ellie, what''s wrong?


    Tears turned the office to a blur. Elise blinked them away. Some spilled over. "I remember," she said, with a sob. "Not everything ... but Charlotte ... oh, poor, sweet Charlotte." Her shoulders trembled. "How could I forget Charlotte when I love her so much?"


    Willow''s worry softened into sympathy. "I know," she said, gathering Elise into another hug. "I know ¡ª we all know. We all loved her so much."


    Another sob wracked Elise, because that wasn''t what she''d meant. That wasn''t what she had meant at all.

 No Accident 14

    It wasn''t fair. It just wasn''t. The first thing Elise had remembered, truly <em class="western">remembered, had already been lost to her. And she only remembered Charlotte in fragments tied together by overwhelming loss and love. Even now, after she''d got control of herself, she reeled with anguish. Chasing that anguish was anger of an almost identical strength, because Charlotte''s death hadn''t been an accident. It couldn''t have been. A girl like that, one so brave, so good, couldn''t have died from anything as senseless as an accident. There had to have been a reason for it, one with a human face.


    Elise looked at the others. They''d gone back to their places around the table, leaving her with room to breathe. All of them watched her with various degrees of concern and curiosity. For a moment, it was like being back in the Refectory. But most people there hadn''t looked concerned for her.


    "I don''t know if I can ever ..." She stopped, giving herself a moment to swallow down her pain. It lodged in the middle of her throat. She pushed past it to speak. "I don''t know if we can ever replace Charlotte, and I don''t want to try." The others failed to hide their dismay, except for Stella, who didn''t seem the least surprised. "But I''ll try to take up as many of her responsibilities as I can, because I remember now ... Some of it, at least." Memories other than ones involving Charlotte had clicked into place for her. Little pieces of the old Elise Ellsworth. "She is ¡ª was our editor. I think I can handle that role." That brightened the faces around the table. She didn''t want to let them hang onto false hope, though, so she added, "Just until we find someone more qualified." Her gaze settled on Willow. "Or until someone more qualified wishes to take the job."


    Willow laughed, though not with cruelty. "You''re not wrong about my qualifications."


    "Good, because I''d taken a guess on them." Elise hadn''t remembered much about the newspaper other than some of the tasks that she or Charlotte had done.


    "But," Willow continued, "I don''t want the position." More than just Elise began to speak against this refusal. Willow tossed their protests off with a shake of her head. "It''s not out of sentiment; if I had any spare time I''d jump at the chance." She sighed. "There''s my studies, my duties as an Underseer, and now that stupid dance ..."


    "Well, we need someone to be editor," Ian said, "and you''re more than qualified, Ell."


    Elise didn''t know if she was or not. She had recalled some of what it meant to edit articles, true, but that wasn''t the same as remembering how to write, how to think, how to lead. And her gut said that being the editor of this paper involved all three of those things and more. "That''s nice of you to say, but I don''t have the ..."


    Strength. Fortitude. Intelligence. And many things she was hopeless to recall. The possibilities of them sat like a half-forgotten objects that had been plucked from shelves in a dusty storage room, their existence only surmised by the gaps they had left behind. She had little idea of who she had been or what she had been capable of doing. Gerver''s voice rumbled through her thoughts, reminding her that wasn''t entirely true:


    <em class="western">I have it on good authority that you''ve always been clever.


    Clever, she was clever. With Gerver, she''d read between his words and learned that someone had tried to kill her, and that he, in turn, had been ordered to kill her would-be murderer. His clues hadn''t been subtle, but she had been quick enough to understand them. That was a sort of cleverness, being quick to think. Her quick mind showed her the path ahead, and she took it.


    "I''m not like Charlotte. I don''t know much, but I do know that. And now ..." Elise took a long breath. Followed it with another. <em class="western">Press on, do not stop, follow the path to its end<em class="western">, Gerver encouraged. He''d never said that to her, but she needed those words from someone, imaginary or not. "Now I can''t believe that she''s gone. I can''t believe that I''m here when she''s not. I''ve barely remembered her, and I just can''t believe ..." Her voice quivered, something that she couldn''t stop no matter how she tried to. She wrestled back enough control to finish. "I can''t believe that this school and this town aren''t doing something about her death."


    No one else said a word. They waited.


    Her chest pumped with breaths so frantic that a nervous attacked seemed imminent. That she kept speaking disproved that fear. "Because of all those things that I can''t believe, I know that we have to do something." Everyone watched her in a way that brought back the stares and whispers of the students, the professors, the staff. All of them watching to see what the girl with the broken brain would do next. Did her friends think that way, too? Is that why they were paying attention? "We have to find out who killed her."


    Expression stony, Ash folded his arms over his chest. "Her death was an accident."


    "Accident my foot," Ian said, pushing his coffee mug away from himself. "If you still believe that story after Elise was found where Charlotte died, then I''ve got a nice slice of real estate on the moon to sell you."


    "And if you believe that she was murdered, you''re more gullible than I thought you were," Ash said. "It''s a coincidence."


    Willow slammed her hands on the table, rattling the empty dishes from their picnic. "You really are a coward, aren''t you?"


    Ash slammed his hands down just as hard as she had done. He stood, staring down at her with blazing blue-grey eyes. "I''m looking out for all of us," he said. "You know where questions got Elise. If that''d been one of us, we wouldn''t have been lucky enough to have a long stay in the clinic afterward."


    Elise stiffened. She''d been asking questions about Charlotte''s death? Could that have been what got her injured? It sounded plausible.


    Plausible or not, Willow refused to back down. "So you''re saying we shouldn''t avenge Charlotte? Is that it?"Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "Listen to yourself, will you? ''Avenge?'' This isn''t one of your stupid soap operas."


    Stella interrupted. "No, it''s more of a horror movie, the kind where something always happens to those who don''t believe in the existence of monsters." She sipped at the coffee she''d been nursing since she''d first got it. Full of too much creamer and sugar. "People like that are always the first to go."


    Ash ignored her, keeping his attention on Willow. "Gerver didn''t bother investigating her case for a reason, and the same can be said for the police."


    Willow looked as if she''d start yelling at any second. She somehow managed to speak calmly. "Don''t tell me to listen to myself," she said. "Listen to yourself, to how you''re telling us to ignore the truth." She added, voice dark, "Does Charlotte mean nothing to you?"


    That deflated Ash a bit. "I am listening to myself," he said, no longer sounding angry, just tired, "because I''m the only one making any sense."


    "What a joke. The only thing that makes sense to you are baseball games."


    He laughed. "Oh, that''s rich coming from the gossip queen of Rambling. Tell me, Willow, what do your beauty magazines say about avoiding a maniac who''ll shove us off the nearest staircase the second he realizes that we''re af ¡ª"


    "SHUT UP!"


    Everyone jumped at that, including Ian, who''d jumped straight out of his chair to yell those words. "Just shut up," he said, not looking at Willow or Ash. "Charlotte was one of us. A fellow student, our colleague, and our damned friend, too." His thin shoulders heaved up and down with unsteady breaths. "And she''s been killed in the same way that someone tried to kill Elise." His breathing slowed a fraction. "But this college, this town, they don''t care about Charlotte because she was nothing more than an Addy."


    "Ian," Willow said softly.


    "It''s true. That''s what those in charge think about people like her." He swallowed, the muscles in his throat flexing. "People like me." He swept his gaze over everyone, but only let it linger on Ash, who looked away first. "Charlotte''s not the first Addy to have died in Rambling." He leaned forward, clutching the table as if he might fall over without it. "There was a guy who had a nasty ''accident'' decades ago in this place. But it''d happened just before the First World War, and people let themselves forget. Life went on: Exes hating Addies, Addies hating Exes, and Ords watching the whole show like they''re righteous for staying out of the fray." His knuckles grew ashen as he held the table a little harder. "But it''s not right. This world is what we make of it ... and I don''t want to be part of any world that turns a blind eye to murder."


    Silence crept into headquarters again. It wouldn''t do to let it stay. Elise didn''t fully understand what Ian was talking about ¡ª though Addies and Exes and Ords seemed to be more complicated than everyone had made them out to be ¡ª but his meaning was obvious. And it sounded right. She felt that in her bones, a knowledge so deep that it seemed like instinct. Some part of her remembered the truth of what he said.


    Elise said, "Ian''s not wrong. This town doesn''t care."


    "That''s easy to say and hard to prove," Ash said, speaking with less conviction than he''d had minutes ago.


    Instinct guided her again. "Addies are hurt or murdered all the time, aren''t they?" The people around her answered that question without speaking a single word, so her intuition hadn''t been wrong. <em class="western">As I said, clever, the memory of Gerver reminded her. Yes, it might be cleverness. It could just as easily be luck. No matter the name for it, she would use it. "I can see that Addies don''t have it easy by the looks on your faces," she said. "So what''s the point in kidding ourselves over Charlotte''s attack? Being afraid over it? Fear doesn''t change anything."


    Ash didn''t meet her gaze. "Being afraid makes sense."


    "It also lets history repeat itself." For the first time since she''d awoken, there was a clearness in her mind that flowed into her voice. "If we don''t do something now, whoever did that to Charlotte might hurt someone else." She nodded in the direction of Ian, then added more. "Like I said, he''s not wrong, and for several reasons. Charlotte is ... Charlotte <em class="western">was one of us." Her gaze fell over these people who had thought of Charlotte as their friend. Words didn''t matter. Actions did. They needed to prove what they were, just as she needed to. "Now, are we going to find her killer, or are we going to let him get away with everything?"


    Not a word was spoken. Everyone seemed unwilling to speak up, struggling with internal arguments that only they could hear. Even Ian, who''d just said how dire things were for Addies, looked conflicted. Fine. It was fine. If they didn''t didn''t want to do anything, she would do it herself. Any madman who wanted to come after her would have a hard time of making her murder stick. He had last time, anyway.


    Then someone spoke.


    "Where do we start?" Willow said.


    Elise nearly shook with relief. Two people now stood on Charlotte''s side. Willow hadn''t needed convincing, of course, but the lines had been drawn. Time for everyone to pick a side.


    "Yeah, where?" Ian said, dropping back into his chair. He looked as if he''d never got out of it, curly hair flopping carelessly onto his forehead. "Because I don''t have the first idea."


    Everyone else settled back into their places, including Ash. They started trading ideas back and forth. Gratitude rushed warmly into Elise. They were doing this, all of them, together. Elise cleared her throat. "First," she started, "we''ll need proof, I think. Of what happened to her that night."


    Willow drummed her fingers on the table, making a nearby stack of paper wave up and down. "That''d mean finding files on her death. Official files."


    "Yes, I suppose." Another thought occurred to Elise, an unpleasant one. "But are those at the University?"


    "They should be," Willow said. "Rambling keeps records on every Extraordinary in Valens Valley for research purposes."


    Research purposes? Asking about that would lead the conversation away from where it needed to be, so Elise kept quiet. She could find out what Willow had meant later.


    Ash wore his skepticism openly. "We tried seeing those files and didn''t have any luck getting permission," he said, as if to say that was that and nothing more could be done.


    Permission? That alone held them back? It seemed such a flimsy thing to stand in their way. Elise cast it aside without a second thought. "Then we do without it."


    Only Stella didn''t look disturbed by this. Ian whistled. "You''re sure not taking any half-measures, Ellie," he said.


    That didn''t sound like a compliment. "I know," she said. "But I think we can come up with a plan that''ll work. I doubt it''ll be easy, but if we work together, we''ll be one step closer to knowing what happened to Charlotte."


    "Yeah, and who takes the blame if we get caught?" Ash said.


    "I will." She didn''t need even think about it, and she certainly didn''t regret volunteering.


    Willow said, "You don''t know what you''re risking."


    "Maybe it''s better that I don''t."


    The discussion was over. In hushed whispers that were the tone of every conspiracy good or ill, the staff of the <em class="western">Rambling Herald burned away the daylight hours assembling and finishing a plan. It would require all of them to pull it off, but only one of them would be the actual thief: Elise Ellsworth, of Valens Valley, state unknown. Everyone tried to convince her to change her mind on that score, each of them volunteering in her place. She refused to so much as consider changing places, and found no fear in her heart at the prospect of being caught. Their worry proved without a doubt that they''d truly been friends both in the past and the present. Keeping them safe mattered more than anything. No instinct or memories needed to tell her that.

 No Accident 15

    Evening came, as it seemed fond of doing. The staff of the <em class="western">Herald had time enough to tidy their headquarters and work on the newspaper before the night arrived. Elise had insisted on doing her share of both activities. She was next to useless at cleaning, so Willow ordered her to go to the table, shoved a stack of articles in front of her, then told her to mark any mistakes with a blue pencil. Elise stared at the daunting heap of paper. Could she really do this? She glanced to Willow, who had sat at her side of the table with her own stack of articles; the taller girl gave Elise an encouraging wave.


    All right, Willow thought her capable. Let Elise prove that faith hadn''t been misplaced. She grabbed a blue pencil from the jar of them sitting close by, then started reading. Her initial worries dissipated as she became absorbed in slashing unnecessary words and correcting sentences. Editing came to her as easily as eating food did, a mindless, hungry activity.


    That discovery gave her such satisfaction that she made it through nine articles before the dinner bell chiming in the corridor outside headquarters. It didn''t matter that most of those articles had only been a paragraph or two ¡ª something of the person she had been still existed within her.


    Everyone broke from work so they could head downstairs. They parted ways just inside the Refectory, moving to their respective tables. She found herself once more at the end of a long bench among the rest of the Hall Seven students. No one invited her to join the conversations flowing around her. Eager for a familiar face she sought and found Gerver at the professor''s table, an action that she immediately regretted ¡ª he was in the middle of eating what looked like egg-yolk soaked raw meat on dark rye bread.


    The ghastly sight forced her gaze to Table Seven, where a delightful feast awaited her: countless appetizers, the most notable of which included deviled eggs, celery filled with cream cheese, stuffed mushroom caps, tomato rarebit, and fresh fruit cups; main courses like roast beef, lamb, pork, and chicken; half a dozen different types of sausages served with sauerkraut and mustard; potatoes baked, boiled, and mashed; a baker''s dozen of casseroles; various soups and stews; festively colored gelatin salads filled with chopped fruits and vegetables; rich, flaky meat pies; and all manner of delicious sides and sauces. This she washed down with a glass of water as frigid as snow. For desert, she had three slices of pie (vinegar, blueberry, and Key lime); two bowls of ice cream (cherry and pineapple) that she ate with five different kinds of cookies (sugar, shortbread half covered in chocolate, molasses, peanut butter, and lavishly spiced mincemeat); and three glasses of milk so cold that it made her head ache when she drank it too fast.


    Only some of the more popular appetizers, desserts, and that godawful raw meat dish never found their way to her, the latter of which she hardly regretted.


    Her various pains faded thanks to the long meal, yet remained tremendous. The food seemed to do little for the exhaustion stealing over her. Curious. Perhaps she could ask Gerver or the nurses in the clinic about it. The very thought wearied her. Tomorrow, she''d ask tomorrow. For now, she had a more immediate problem to deal with.


    Getting into her wheelchair proved a struggle in her sleepy state. The work she had done for the paper must have taken more out of her than she thought. But she didn''t bother asking for help. Except for Marek, no one from Hall Seven had treated her with much kindness.


    Several minutes later help sounded pretty good when she almost tipped herself onto the floor. Despite the chair''s brake being firmly set, the thing had a tendency to wobble when she got in or out of it. That wasn''t much of a problem when she''d had nothing to do but sit in bed and read and gather strength. In her current state, it was like trying to slash overgrown brambles with a butter knife. Leaving the Refectory seemed a distant and impossible dream.


    "That looks like a good way to hurt yourself," someone said from just behind her.


    She knew that voice without seeing its source. "I''m fine, Marek."


    "Fine, she says." He made a small, short noise that could''ve been a laugh. "Ellsworth, you''re far from fine. You''ve been battling that thing for a full five minutes. Let me help."


    Helping her would, at this point, mean hauling her around. He had done enough of that on the night she had awoken, carrying her like a bride. Her face heated at the memory, growing so hot that it hurt. That seemed to happen whenever she got embarrassed or tried to fib, like she tried to do next. "I''m taking my time on purpose," she said.


    "Boy, oh, boy, that has to be one of the lousiest excuses I''ve heard in a while," he said, "and I''ve heard some doozies."


    Why couldn''t he just go away? She didn''t need help, certainly not his. The boy he had been when they''d first met had been a far cry from the one insulting Adesso and Romilly at the breakfast table. Yes, he had stood up for Elise, but he had also frightened her with all his talk of killers and victims. The boy talking to her now might be that particular version of Marek, and she was too tired to deal with him.


    "But if you really want me to leave you alone that much, I will." A few footsteps sounded behind her, each one quieter than the last. "All alone, mind you, because everyone''s left this place."


    That couldn''t be true. She looked over and between the tall centerpieces. Not counting abandoned dishes, Table Seven was empty. She forced herself to twist on the bench, then looked at the rest of the room. Her back and hips throbbed at the awkward position. No one sat at the tables behind her, either. The Refectory was devoid of life except for her and Marek. She hadn''t heard anyone leave. No, she''d been too busy eating, then trying to get in that damned chair. How could she have not noticed whole crowds of people passing her by? Panic thumped in her chest. "Where have they gone?" she said, staring up at him. "Where has everyone gone?"


    He moved his sleeve back to show her his wristwatch. "It''s nine o''clock," he said, tapping the crystal face. "Well, nine-oh-six to be exact, and that much closer to curfew." He tugged his sleeve back down, frowning. "You''d know that if you''d read the University''s handbook that I gave you."


    Curfew? God, she must''ve looked so stupid to him. A silly, empty-headed girl who saw danger in every shadow. She had good reason for it, but would that really matter to someone as changeable as he was? In the clinic, he had seemed first to her a beast stalking its next meal, then he had been a nice, yet flippant boy. This morning he had been a cold and acerbic creature. She didn''t know him or his intentions, which made him a danger. A great one, with that exceptional strength of his.


    But he wouldn''t do anything to her. He hadn''t before in the clinic, and if he had wanted to, that would have been the moment for it. Anyone could come along and see the two of them in the Refectory right now. He wouldn''t risk it ...


    Or would he?


    She swallowed down her fear. It lodged in her chest like a great lump of dirty ice. "Yes, curfew, of course," she said. "I did read that handbook ¡ª and thank you, for everything. The notes and the books. It was very kind of you to go to the trouble."


    He gave a lopsided shrug. "It''s all part of being an Underseer." He adjusted the strap of his book bag. "You know what that is, don''t you?"


    An Underseer, yes, he was an Underseer, just look at his Hall tie pin and the unmistakable ring of white mother-of-pearl around its head. Willow had worn the same sort of pin, as was required of Underseers. Elise nodded, then recited, "They''re students who work with Overseers to monitor and protect the rest of the student body."


    A small smile flashed on his face. "You must''ve been pretty bored in that clinic if you practically memorized the handbook definition."This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    "It''d been underlined," she said. "There were a lot of underlined things in that handbook of yours." His name had been just inside the cover, so he had likely been responsible for the rest of the mess.


    "Sorry about that," he said. "I like to mark what''s mine. That way other people know better than to take my things."


    What a strange thing to say. "Do people often take your things?"


    Marek gave a start, as if surprised by that question. "No, not anymore." He smiled at her again, this time insincerely ¡ª his eyes showed no sign of warmth. "Where were we? Ah, right. Help. If you want my help, just say so, and if not, I''ll be on my merry way."


    How could he admit to being the target of thieves so lightly? It must have happened more than once if it hadn''t been anything out of the ordinary for him. That thought stirred something in her, like the memory of a dream half-forgotten before even getting out of bed. It had meaning, weight, importance. But it slipped from her like handfuls of rainwater, their shape quickly lost in the dark currents of her mind. What stayed behind was pity. The small distance and great light between Elise and Marek now revealed the reasons for that pity, every little drop of it that had escaped her only seconds ago. The wear on the cuffs of his jacket, his patched book bag, the scratches and scuffs on his shoes that no amount of polish could hide.


    "Don''t," he said, voice dark. "Don''t look at me like that, like I''m something you can feel sorry for." His hands flexed into fists. "Because I''m not."


    She ducked her head in guilt and alarm. But that made her look at the hem of her skirt, at her shoes, at the wear on both of them. They''d been excellently repaired, but they had seen use. She had missed those details getting dressed this morning. The cuffs of her jacket, those looked the same. And that girl in the photographs, that younger Elise, her clothes hadn''t been like her sister''s bright, frilly dresses. No, hers had been plain and dark. Things that drew no attention. She had known that the Ellsworths hadn''t cared much for her, yet to see it, to have solid proof ...


    It hurt. And it hurt to see someone else standing in front of her in an old and frayed uniform so much like her own. But if the situation had been reversed, if he had noticed her tatty clothes and let his stare linger on them, she wouldn''t have wanted his pity. That would''ve just reminded her of why she was pitiable.


    "I know that you''re not," she said, as much to herself as to him.


    Whatever he''d been expecting her to say, it hadn''t been that. His eyes ¡ª they were of a pale green too vivid to be normal, weren''t they? ¡ª widened the slightest bit, and the rest of his shock rippled outwardly from them. Control set in seconds later, his expression closing, his gaze cooling, his jaw tightening. He showed nothing else. "You," he began, "<em class="western">know? Forgive me if that sounds funny coming from you."


    Part of her, a very large part, wanted to curse at him, call him names. He didn''t make it very easy to like him. She still tried to because of how well he had treated her after finding her cowering in the clinic, and because it was all too easy to imagine the kind of things that Abriana Adesso had said about his shabby clothes, things that beastly girl had no doubt said about Elise''s, too.


    "I''ve lost my memories, not my sense," she said, "and if you think that you''re the only person anyone pities in this world, then you''re sorely mistaken."


    He stopped glaring at her after that. The boy didn''t have enough decency to look as if he regretted his words, but a lack of visible ill will counted as progress. Maybe.


    She shifted on the bench, unwilling to look at him any longer. "Now, if you''re still offering help, I''ll gladly take it."


    Centuries passed in silence. He was probably thinking of leaving or telling her that he wouldn''t help her if she begged him. Then hands wrapped around her waist, lifting her with ungodly strength. Heartbeats shuddered through her and her stomach seemed to float somewhere in the middle of her chest. He let go of her as soon as he had got her into place. Her stomach didn''t settle when she did. She had no reason to feel sick ¡ª he hadn''t swung her around until she was nauseous, or done anything untoward. Far from it. So why was her heart still pounding like that?


    Well, being picked up like that had been startling, that was all. It couldn''t be anything else, because she didn''t know him, didn''t care about him, didn''t like him. The only person she remembered feeling anything for was Charlotte Cooke. Everyone else was a stranger, even Willow and the rest of the <em class="western">Herald staff. "Thank you," she said.


    "Don''t worry yourself over it."


    Did he think politeness a form of pity, too? No, never mind, it didn''t matter. She needed to get to her Hall Seven, and ¡ª


    Her dorm. She had no idea how to get to it. Seeing its location on a map in a handbook or from an illusory bird''s-eye view wasn''t the same as actually knowing which corridors led there. But Marek shared her Hall, so he''d know the way there. She''d need to ask for his help again. Or could she just follow him? That could be the easiest way of doing things.


    "Ready?" Marek said.


    Oh, thank goodness, he wanted her to come with him. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I am."


    They left the Refectory traveling the same route that Ian had taken her down before. She kept her eyes firmly on the way ahead rather than risk looking at the dangerous walls, wheeling herself at a good pace behind Marek. They passed by the kitchens, then the elevator, then pressed into uncharted territory. Gaslights lit their way, cutting out when the students had passed beyond their light. The pale wallpaper grew darker foot by foot until utter blackness covered the walls on both sides. Tiny lights winked into existence along the paper, drawing her gaze. Stars, those were stars. And she had stopped to look at them. They emitted a soft, silvery sound that could barely be heard above the blood hissing in her ears. If she could just lean forward a little she might hear what the stars were trying to tell her ...


    Her chair started moving without any effort from her, and the spell broke. "You oughta be careful," Marek said. He was behind her now, pushing her along. "Rambling has a mind of its own."


    She shivered, helpless to stop it. "What do you mean?"


    "This place used to be a manor, not a university. Some rich Englishman carted it off to America way back when." The gaslights shimmered a little higher. "That guy was an Extraordinary, and a genius, too. He wanted this place and Valens Valley to both educate and research people like him, but he didn''t want a bunch of servants running around tending fires and making beds. They''d spread rumors, and rumors are dangerous to people like us." The flames grew higher, lengthening some shadows and burning away others. "So he made this place run on its own. It took years, but he finally succeeded. Rambling Manor was opened to special students not long after that."


    There had to be more to the story, for a man who could do that could do anything. "What did he do for his next trick?"


    "He disappeared." Now the lights shrank down, dropping the two travelers into near darkness. Marek didn''t skip a step, as if he hardly noticed the change. "Then the Manor started doing all sorts of things it wasn''t supposed to do, like adding on useless rooms or making stairs that lead to nowhere."


    Hair raised on her arms, pressing against the sleeves of her blouse. "It''s still doing those things, isn''t it?" she said. "The gaslights, the wallpaper ..." <em class="western">The compelling little stars that invite you to come closer and listen.


    "Yeah." His voice dropped low, as if he were imparting a secret. "It still does those things."


    That should''ve been crazy talk. It would have been if she hadn''t seen what she had seen ¡ª a boy who lifted her like she had been made of air, a man who looked like a corpse, paper butterflies that flapped around like they thought themselves real. A manor that decorated itself didn''t seem far-fetched in comparison, especially when it had been doing that before her very eyes. But if it could do that, it might do more. Like think. She rubbed at her arms, which still felt chilled. "That certainly wasn''t in the handbook," she muttered.


    "It wouldn''t be." The stars on the walls now clustered together so thickly that they nearly outshone the guttering gaslights. "Mrs. Rambling knows that it makes people nervous, so she lets them think the house runs strictly on gears and motors."


    More stars burst into the black of the wallpaper, close and lambent. Their silvery song grew louder. "Mrs. Rambling?" Elise said, desperate to have a distraction from that noise. "Is she related to the man who disappeared? Is the University named after them?"


    Marek seemed unaffected by the stars, pushing the chair at a leisurely speed. "Yeah," he said. "He became a lord or something over in merry old England when Queen Victoria was still above ground, bought some ancient stone pile, and modestly slapped his name on it. Then, like I said, he shipped it here."


    Galaxies and nebulae popped into existence, throbbing in what looked like a pattern. No, that wasn''t true. This place wasn''t alive, wasn''t capable of making any patterns. It had just been made by someone with enough intelligence and creativity to invent the Eighth Wonder of the World. "What was his name?" she said.


    "Edmond Prasad Rambling, but, humble guy that he was, he insisted everyone call him Lord Rambling."


    Comets whizzed by, burning blue across the black walls. Stars ruptured into waves of colorful light that washed away the dark. She threw an arm over her face on instinct, blocking out the harsh glare. It ebbed away in time, but ghosts of it flared on the backs of her eyelids, harsh and red.


    "And if you can''t tell by now," Marek said, "the Manor doesn''t really like it when you insult the old man." He started pushing the wheelchair again, having at some point stopped doing so. The light show must have made him cover his eyes, too.


    "I''ll keep it in mind." She truly would. Any house that could take offense and rearrange itself at the same time qualified as a danger.

 No Accident 16

    Sometimes, true light shone down. It peeked around the edges of side corridors and slanted through windows that stood high in the walls between corridors and the closed rooms to the right. Pockets of it glittered where the gaslight didn''t reach, as spectral and soft as only moonlight could be. By this light the end of the main corridor became clear. As Elise and Marek reached it, the gaslights turned up enough to illuminate their destination: a single silver door laden with fanciful carvings of fruit, flowers, and leaves that blushed gold. The silvery numeral "7" glittered above the door in a field of starry wallpaper.


    But there was one problem ¡ª no doorknob or handle was in sight. Marek stopped her wheelchair right in front of the door, bringing her so close that the hem of her skirt pressed against her knees. "How does it open?" Elise said.


    "You ask it nicely."


    If this was a comedy routine, he could go on the road with it. People in some other part of the country might actually have found him funny. "I''m serious."


    "So am I," he said. There was the sound of whispering fabric, then his voice uncurled behind her right ear. "Just reach out and ask for what you want."


    A shiver tripped down her spine. His voice stirred something in her, a mixture of fear and excitement and things without name. The muddle of feelings reminded her of ... of ... of moments she couldn''t quite recall. Dreams and desires that no longer seemed like her own. Perhaps they belonged to the Elise she was now, but not the one had been. Or the reverse might be true. Past and present whipped together like debris in a gale. What should she feel? Which feelings should she trust? Which couldn''t she?


    Elise shoved everything away. Keeping her wits was more important. Her feelings could be sorted out later. "Ask the door?" she said to Marek. "Aloud, or in my head?"


    "Either," he said. He had said that word before, when he''d first found her and told her not to make a sound, saying it as <em class="western">eye-ther like she would''ve done. But now he had said as if he were ¡ª


    <em class="western">"Common."


    <em class="western">Both Elise and her sister stopped cold at that. They''d been playing with their dolls on the sitting room floor, quietly babbling away about silly things, but that didn''t matter. When Father used that tone, they had to listen. He rarely used it when talking to Meliora, though. No, it was <em class="western">usually <em class="western">for Elise, who always did something wrong.


    <em class="western">She set her doll aside at once. <em class="western">If she didn''t, he''d only get angrier. When your elders spoke, you had to give them your full attention. <em class="western">"S<em class="western">-s<em class="western">ir?" she said.<em class="western"> Her heartbeats had somehow found their way into her voice and turned it shaky.


    <em class="western">Father lowered his paper<em class="western"> enough to show the top of his head and eyebrows<em class="western">, but <em class="western">that was all<em class="western">. Once he sat down in his big armchair and started reading his evening newspaper, he liked to <em class="western">stay<em class="western"> there until he finished every last <em class="western">bit<em class="western"> of it.<em class="western"> He didn''t like interruptions from anyone until he''d folded it up and set it on the skinny table to his right. "When you pronounce the word ''either'' as ''ee-ther,'' it sounds common." He turned a page, quietly rustling the paper. "Those who have the Ellsworth name are anything but common."


    <em class="western">The girl''s heart stopped drumming <em class="western">so <em class="western">hard<em class="western"> now that Father had let her know how she''d upset him. If she knew, she could fix what she had done. "I''m sorry, sir."


    <em class="western">"If you were sorry," he said, "you''d stop sounding as if we <em class="western">had <em class="western">just <em class="western">brought you into our home<em class="western">." The paper rustled again, this time as he turned his attention to the other<em class="western"> side of it. "Yet it''s been a year since then, hasn''t it?"


    <em class="western">Yes, it had been a year, a whole year, and she<em class="western"> still couldn''t behave like an Ellsworth was supposed to. Her shame burned inside her, creeping hotly into her face. Then her eyes started stinging. She curled her hands tight, fingernails biting her palms. It hurt, but it kept her tears from falling. Father would be even more upset if she started crying. She couldn''t upset him, because that would mean being Bad. "Y-yes," she said.


    <em class="western">"<em class="western">If<em class="western"> you know better," he told her,<em class="western"> "do better,"<em class="western"> and the newspaper went back up, hiding <em class="western">him <em class="western">like a great<em class="western"> grey<em class="western"> wall.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Fireflies swarmed angrily above her, blinking purple light that flashed like neon signage all the way up to the distant ceiling. Pretty. She had only seen fireflies in photos and the occasional movie, both of those rarely in color. Some of the fireflies seemed close enough to touch. She reached out for them. Her arm refused to lift. It felt heavy, that arm, like someone had filled it with cement.


    Marek appeared over her, his eyes wide behind his glasses. He was saying something, a lot of somethings. The strange buzzing in her ears engulfed his words. He leaned down to take her face in his hands, hair falling across his forehead. The feverish heat of his touch rippled through her. How could he feel so hot? Was something wrong with him? He shouted a single word, a foul word, one that she knew only by the shape that his mouth took when he said it. If Father had heard that, he would''ve had a thing or two to say about commonness.


    That was the last coherent thought she had for some time.


    A new heat, one worse than the heat of Marek''s hands, grew inside her. It scorched her lungs and strained her ribs. Dark spots swam in her eyes. Shadows pressed in on her from all sides. Air, she needed air.


    Marek stared down at her, nearly looking a shadow himself in the darkening world. He suddenly moved down and didn''t stop until his lips covered hers. His mouth burned her worse than his hands did. How could something so hot be that soft?


    She gasped at the shock of this new sensation, and he tore his mouth away. The shadows and dark spots faded from her vision with each breath she took. His hands, still resting on her cheeks, felt only warm now. It was a warmth that had started to seep back into her own frozen body, thawing her blood. "Wh-what happened?" she croaked.


    How awful she sounded, how awful she felt! As if she would never be warm again.


    "You had an attack," he said, not quite meeting her eyes. His hands dropped slowly away from her face, fingertips gently trailing fading fire on her skin.


    An attack? God, that couldn''t be good. She sat up, rubbing her neck with a leaden hand. The awkward angle it had been sitting at hadn''t done her any favors, but at least she could move. Moonlight fell over her in the new place that her wheelchair sat, not far from the silver door. Marek must have yanked the wheelchair around when he''d realized something was wrong with her. "The clinic." She dropped her hand into her lap, where it joined her other one. Her fingers knotted together. "We should go to the clinic. The doctor and the nurses, they''ll help."


    "They won''t." He straightened up, raking his hair back into place. "What happened to you," he continued, taking off his glasses, "I''ve seen it before." He ran a hand down his face. A few fireflies weaved around him. "It''s a power. A kind of mental manipulation."


    "Tell me what that means." She had a good idea of what it entailed, but she needed to know for certain.


    "It means that someone has made a playground of your skull." The anger in his tone made her shrink back. He noticed her reaction and softened his voice. "I''m not mad at you, I''m mad at whoever did this to you."


    Playing around in her head? Yes, that could be another way of saying mental manipulation. "Someone has done this to me," she said, just to hear it confirmed in plain words. "It wasn''t the fall I took."


    <em class="western">For a girl who has forgotten herself, the rest of your mind seems wonderfully intact<em class="western">, Gerver echoed inside her head. The professor had no idea how right he''d been when he''d told her that ¡ª provided Marek was telling the truth about what caused her to stop breathing. She had no way of knowing if she could trust him, though. The best she could do was appear to believe him, so she could later confirm it with Willow and the others. Or, if not them, then Gerver or one of the nurses. Perhaps all of them, for she had been told to trust no one.


    "How dangerous is this?" she said, because that was the sort of thing she would''ve asked if she had taken his words at face value. "How do I fix it?"


    If she could fix it, she could have her memories back. She could have Charlotte back, in a way. She could have herself back.


    "You believe me?" Marek said. "Just like that?"


    Okay, so maybe there was such a thing as too naive. The existence of Abriana Adesso had proved that not everyone at Rambling was concerned about the welfare of fellow students, and she couldn''t have forgotten that after relearning it today. But she didn''t want to drive Marek off. He had helped her again and again since they had met; he had defended her against Adesso; he had, only minutes ago, saved her from a terrible attack. Yet something within her said not to get too close. In this dark corridor, so far from anyone else, his hair and unnatural eyes seemed like the warning spots of a poisonous spider. <em class="western">Beware, they said, <em class="western">do not touch. Considering the disbelieving questions he had just asked her, maybe he sensed her ambivalence about him.


    Elise had a question of her own. "Is there any reason I shouldn''t believe you?"


    He stuck his glasses on, then pushed them into place up the bridge of his nose. "There''s a killer on the loose," he said. "You know that better than anyone else, Ellsworth."


    The way he said her name sounded almost exactly as her so-called father had said it. As if it meant something. Marek had also mentioned about her "knowing better," a coincidence that turned her stomach.


    He must''ve noticed something of her reaction, because of what he next said. "I''ll tell you what we can do." His tone had turned as gentle as his face had. "Let''s go see Gerver. You can ask him whatever you like, or even have him take you to the clinic."


    "You don''t mind?"


    A shake of his head. "No. In fact, I would''ve been offended if you didn''t show any backbone. Most people wouldn''t understand the meaning of ''self-preservation'' even if the letters were spelled out for them."


    Did she truly understand that? She thought back. Her first actions upon waking had been to run and to hide, not to call out for help. Add her new memory of the Ellsworths to the photographs where little Elise''s smile had steadily faded, to her shabby school uniform, to the lack of visits from the family, and you came up with an ugly sum, that self-preservation had been a necessity of environment. Marek, with his worn shoes and patched book bag, surely understood that as well as she did. "Yes," she said, "most people wouldn''t."

 No Accident 17

    They wasted little time in leaving the large corridor, Marek pushing her along with a haste that seemed unsustainable.


    "You should slow down," she said.


    "Don''t worry." The boy didn''t sound out of breath. "I won''t tip you out of your chair."


    The purple fireflies followed them like an electrified mist. Some darted ahead, looping around in the air so quickly that they made burning wheels of light in the darkness far ahead of her. "That''s not what I''m worried about." A lie. She was holding onto her wheelchair for dear life. But it wasn''t her only worry. "You''ll tire yourself pushing me about like this."


    "I won''t." He sounded as if he''d just been smiling. "My powers don''t let me get tired that easy."


    Lucky him. Still, she didn''t relax. "That must be nice."


    "Don''t get too jealous, Ellsworth. Everyone''s always asking me to move furniture on my days off."


    If he had been trying to make her laugh, he had succeeded. Nothing more came to mind for her to say, however, so she didn''t bother continuing the conversation. Quiet was welcome after all the talking she had done with her friends in the newsroom, and her attack had taken its toll. Cool sheets and a soft bed sounded very welcome right about now.


    A firefly drifted down onto her right hand, tickling her knuckles with its legs and shoving thoughts about sleep to one side. Well-fed curiosity was worth breaking the silence for. "What are these things?" she said.


    "They''re what they look like ¡ª fireflies. But not real ones."


    "Not real?" The firefly on her hand fluttered its glittering wings. "You could''ve fooled me."


    "Grab one and you''ll see."


    Elise tentatively reached for the firefly. It winked light in a soothing pattern even as she plucked it up. The insect wasn''t pliable as she''d expected it to be, but hard and cold like metal. Her fingers traced along its ridged body, testing it. No, not just metal. It felt like glass, too. She brought the firefly closer to her face. Except for the gauzy material of the wings, metal and glass was exactly what it was made of. Inside its clear belly tiny gears turned around a tube of violet liquid that flashed and darkened at different intervals. A soft, insistent hum emitted from that tube, strong enough to thrum into the bones of her fingers. The firefly''s legs, made of the same black-painted metal as the rest of its skeleton, wiggled uselessly for purchase. She gave it a little shake, but all that did was make the legs wiggle faster.


    Amazing. The device was so small and yet so sturdy. "Are these yours?" she said to Marek. "Did you make them?"


    "They''re part of Rambling, a kind of alarm system. You can tell what sort of alarm it is by the light." He paused. "Purple''s a medical emergency."


    "Because of me?"


    "Because of you."


    That was good to know, even if it destroyed some of the charm. She let the firefly go. It didn''t drop far before taking flight, then zoomed off to join the others. Another question rose to her lips, one that filled her face with a familiar and unwelcome fire. "What kind of medical emergency is solved by a kiss?"


    Her wheelchair jumped a little as Marek''s pace suddenly slowed. He quickly picked it back up. "With a fit like that, the only thing to do is to shock a person out of it," he said. "There wasn''t a pitcher of water around, so the choices were a kiss or a slap, and I don''t hit girls."


    No, he just insulted them, like he''d done in her defense at breakfast. It''d been deserved, certainly, but punches or kicks weren''t the only way to hit someone. "You don''t mind being mean to them."


    A dismissive noise. "If you''re troubled by what I said to Abriana Adesso, you ought to stop feeling sorry for her. She''s never felt sorry for anyone except herself."


    The memory of being sprawled over grass while Adesso stalked towards came back so strongly that Elise flinched. "I know," she said.


    "Do you know because you remembered that just now?" he said.


    She flinched again, this time for a different reason ¡ª startlement. "How do you know that I''ve got any memories back?"


    "That''s what usually happens with an attack like that. It means memories are shaking loose."


    Oh, of course. He knew something about this sort of thing, as if it were commonplace. "How often does this happen?" she said. "How often do people in this town come up with missing memories?"


    Marek slowed down again, this time so he could steer them into a much narrower corridor on their left. The fireflies followed, though there seemed to be less of them now. "When I first got to this town, I met this kid," he said. "Thirteen, same age as I was, but you couldn''t tell with him. He was just a little guy, with mousy hair and the kind of face you''d fight to remember. That pipsqueak could play a mean game of poker, though." The wallpaper over the wainscoting turned from the dark of night to the deep grey that came before dawn, casting enough light to separate paper sky from paper earth. "But the orphanage staff, they were always giving him this medicine."


    Orphanage staff? Marek had grown up in an orphanage?


    Clouds flowed on the walls, spotted by the faint pink of distant sunrise. It was a peaceful contrast to Marek''s tale. "They jabbed him with these big old needles that left bruises on his arms. Day in, day out, he got those needles, until one day he didn''t."This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Her stomach tightened in anticipation, yet Marek''s next words did not surprise her.


    "He gave ''em the slip."


    The speed of the wheelchair decreased, not all at once, but slowly. As Marek continued speaking, she saw in her mind''s eye what he described, like an old movie projected in a pitch black room.


    "Everybody was ordered to look for him, except for the little kids. They were herded off the grounds so they wouldn''t get in the way of the search, the staff said. But that was a lie." More pink tinted the clouds and the sky close to the horizon. "They told the rest of us, the ones old enough to really use our powers, that we had to take Platt down at any cost. That our time had come to be brave and help the grownups." Marek laughed, but there wasn''t any humor in it. "Then they turned tail the second we trundled off like the good little idiots we were."


    For a while, he said nothing more. The wheels of her chair rolled like the wheels of a tank beneath her, loud and relentless.


    "But we didn''t need to find Platt," Marek said, "because he found us. Or he found <em class="western">them. The staff, the doctors, the nurses. Everyone who''d ever stuck a needle in him or ordered it to be done. He caught them at the front doors and made them scream."


    Heart rabbiting, she gripped the arms of her wheelchair more tightly. Red splotched the silver screen of her mind, the same red that filled the sunrise wallpaper on either side of the corridor. She imagined a tangle of bodies crumbled in an entryway, so mangled that they looked like great piles of ground beef left to soak in their own blood.


    "Most of the other kids ran when they heard it." Marek''s voice grew so low that she had to slow her breathing to hear him. "Stupid of them. The building had been locked down. Only the guard and the supervisor carried the keys that would open the doors, and Platt had got to them first."


    The wheelchair crawled along as slowly as Marek''s story did. "Five of us didn''t crack, so we kept going," he said. "The screams had given way to other sounds ... these <em class="western">wet sounds, like a dog tearing into raw steak." He cleared his throat. "And that was what we saw. People tearing into one another like steak. The kids with me, they tried to run, but Platt saw ''em. He told them things." Marek cleared his throat again, but it didn''t work. His voice strained as he spoke. "They were animals, Platt said. Animals in a jungle that had to eat to survive. He twisted their minds with words, just words, and when he saw me ..."


    Elise reached back for one of his hands to comfort him. His fingers jerked at her touch, but stayed on the chair handle.


    "When he saw me," Marek went on, in a stronger voice, "he hesitated."


    It seemed impossible that a freak like that would do anything as human as hesitate. "Why?"


    "Because he was a mean poker player." Something like admiration tinged Marek''s words. How could he find anything to admire about a murderer? "Most people had nothing to do with him, but I''d play cards with him since he was so hard to bluff."


    "You were friends?" No, that couldn''t be true.


    "Is anyone friends with the Devil himself?" The walls around Marek and Elise remained blood-red, frozen in perpetual dawn. "But no matter how hard to bluff he was, I got him that day. Told him it''d be okay. Told him that I''d help him. Told him so many lies that I can''t even remember them all. Then when he got close enough to me, I took a swing."


    Her wheelchair stopped. Part of her wanted to tell him to stop, too. She would have, if it didn''t sound like he was somehow relieved to share what he had done. So she waited instead and kept her hand on his.


    A sigh. "Skinny as he was, that little bastard could take a punch," Marek said. "Sent him clean through a wall and into another room. Still breathing, but not awake. That broke his power over everyone else ¡ª the ones who were still alive, anyway."


    The words <em class="western">I''m sorry almost left her. She caught them just in time. If she hadn''t, Marek might have thought she was feeling pity for him again. She was. It probably wouldn''t have mattered to him that it was a different kind of pity than the one she had felt over his worn clothes. It was best not to say anything that could have been misinterpreted. "That must''ve been hard for you."


    His fingers tightened on the handle, and she held fast to them. "Others have had it worse." He started pushing the chair again, which was her cue to pull her hand away.


    "What happened to him?" she said.


    "The town goon squad came to the rescue ¡ª late ¡ª and gave him his medicine. Last I heard, they shipped him to a comfortable cell in the Factory."


    That sounded ominous. "The Factory?"


    A voice echoed out of the dark in front of them. "It''s a research facility where very bad monsters are brought to fritter away the rest of the days in unbelievable despair and torture." Gerver stepped into the light of gas and fireflies, pressing his customary cigarette to his mouth. He exhaled a ribbon of smoke. "It is also, as I am required to inform anyone who mentions it, a complete and utter fabrication created by enemies both foreign and domestic, so please don''t ask about it again where I can hear you, as it''s tedious in the extreme to constantly warn people about things that don''t exist."


    Marek said, "Eavesdropping, sir? You really should get better hobbies."


    "As riveting as your conversations undoubtedly are, I was only following this." He opened one of his dead-white hands, releasing a firefly into the air. "And ''strategic attention'' is the preferred term, not eavesdropping."


    That seemed to be a joke. Then again, he was the Combat Professor, so it might not have been. Strategic attention might well be part of his curriculum.


    The firefly reached its brethren. All at once, they turned the eerie green that fireflies were said to give off. Elise gasped, something that no doubt made her sound foolish, for she had been doing a lot of it lately. The fireflies flew off into the darkness that Gerver had emerged out of, streaming through the black corridor like hundreds of tiny falling stars.


    "It must be a fine thing to look upon the world with wonder."


    She tore her gaze from the retreating green glow, forcing herself to look at Gerver. He, like Marek, didn''t seem to worry about making people hate him. "I can''t help it," she said. "My mind''s been manipulated, or so I''ve been told."


    The professor glanced above her, beyond her. Marek spoke. "She had an attack like the ones Platt used to give his victims."


    That word ¡ª victims ¡ª lanced through her.


    <em class="western">It''s more likely that the victims were targeted for their looks, not how they got their powers<em class="western">, reminded Marek''s voice inside her head. When he had said that at breakfast, his coldness had alarmed her. But she hadn''t dug down deep into herself to find the anger beneath her alarm. She could feel it now, as if she had stuck her hands into rich, loose earth to pry up the sucking roots of a thirsty, thorned weed.


    A victim? She wasn''t one of those, she was


    <em class="western">Slender<em class="western">, pale, dark-haired.


    someone who''d survived, and she refused to believe


    <em class="western">If there''s a killer, he has a type.


    anything else.


    "That''s not true," she said, only to herself. "That''s not me ..."


    Speaking to herself didn''t keep anyone else from hearing her. Gerver dropped his cigarette to the floor, then crushed it beneath the heel of his shoe. Livid fury writhed in his horrid face, a sight that both fascinated and repelled her. "Be wary of games, Miss Ellsworth. You''ve never been a great player of them."


    "Stop telling me who I am!" She covered her mouth as if she could recapture those words and the anger in them. A hopeless gesture, unless she had the power to turn back time.


    If what she had said infuriated Gerver any more than she had already done, he did not show it. His face turned blandly disinterested, and he turned his back on the two students. "This isn''t a conversation for the corridor," he said, then began to lead the way into the watchful labyrinth that was Rambling, leaving Elise and Marek no choice but to follow.

 No Accident 18

    A dizzying set of switchback turns brought them to a dead-end corridor. It terminated in a rounded wall. From this wall protruded a curved crimson door that opened by itself upon an equally curved room. Ebony panels covered the coffered dome ceiling and the rounded walls, the latter of which had shelves built into them. A blood-red rug hid most of the white marble floor. A small sitting area stood before a sleek black desk shaped like a half moon. The streamlined furniture would have been fashionable a decade or so ago, but looked terribly dated nowadays. Yet it suited Gerver, for he was a man ambered in time.


    Flesh prickled at the back of Elise''s neck. Ambered in time? True, he could be called that; from his very clothes to the style of this room, he seemed of another decade, but what a strange thought to have. An off-putting man like him did not inspire poetic comparisons. It must have been a stray observation that her previous self had made, one strong enough to slip through to the here and now.


    "Please make yourselves comfortable," Gerver said, as they had entered his office.


    Marek deposited Elise by the fan-shaped coffee table, then settled into one of the armchairs close by. She inspected the chairs with disbelief; the red and white stripes seemed too pleasant for the professor to have chosen them.


    Gerver took his place in the black leather chair of his desk, then swiveled around. The lamp shining behind him obscured his face only a little in shadow, not enough for him to be viewed head-on. He tapped the chrome of an armrest with a forefinger, while looking at something located behind his guests ¡ª the spotless white mantel of the fireplace, perhaps. "Recount the incident, Miss Ellsworth," he said, and stopped tapping. "Just your side of things, not whatever Mr. Marek may have mentioned to you."


    Where could Elise even start? She hadn''t even realized she was in the middle of an "incident" until it was almost over. The truth, she would start with that. That was all she had to give him, anyway.


    "I remembered something," she said.


    Yes, that was how it had started, with a memory of life at the Ellsworth house. She went on, speaking of that long ago evening when she''d been reprimanded by her father for mispronouncing a word. Gerver didn''t interrupt or motion for her to hurry along, but the set of his shoulders seemed to have grown rigid. Hearing some old, stupid memory of hers must have been driving him towards impatience. Best to rush through that part of her tale. "Then that man ¡ª my father ¡ª told me if I knew better, I should do better, and I woke up."


    Dull pain shot through her hands. Sometime during her story, she had started clutching the armrests of her wheelchair. She loosened her grip. "There were lights," she continued. "Those fireflies, from before. I tried to touch them, but I couldn''t move an inch. And then I saw Marek." Her throat tightened. Talking about what happened made her feel heavy again, as if she were back in that moment. "He talked to me, and I couldn''t hear a word of what he said, not until he ..."


    Kissed her.


    "Until he shocked me out of it," she finished.


    Again, Gerver tapped at his chair. He did this for a long time. When he ceased this irritating tic, he said, "Your side, now, Mr. Marek."


    The younger man nodded. "We''d just gotten to our Hall, and I was telling Ellsworth how to open the door." He adjusted his glasses; lamplight caught on the rounded lenses. "She turned stiff and started shaking. Her head went back, then her eyes ..." Marek swallowed, making his Adam''s apple hop. "Her eyes went back, too, showing the whites. And I ¡ª" His impassive expression wavered. He cleared his throat several times, shifting forward in his seat. "I''m ashamed to say that I panicked first, and thought second. But when I calmed down, when I <em class="western">thought, I recognized her symptoms straightaway."


    Gerver leaned back, turning his chair fractionally from one side to the other like a top ceasing its revolution on a table. "Is this the first time you''ve experienced such an attack, Ellsworth?"


    "I-I think it is," she said. "But nothing like this happened the last time. If it had, my friends would''ve told me."


    No, there''d been another time, hadn''t there? When she had first awoken, a memory of drinking her silvery medicine had come to her. An icy hand plunged inside her chest at the thought of telling Gerver the whole truth. The hand squeezed around her heart, sending tendrils of frigid fear deep into the rest of her. There had to be a cause for that fear somewhere in her past, a reason to keep silent. She reached for her necklace, tracing a fingertip along the chain that lay above the throat of her blouse, and said nothing.


    If she couldn''t trust others, she had to trust herself. That included her intuition.


    He rose, thrusting his hands into his pockets. As expected, he came up with his cigarette case. He started pacing after he got a cigarette out and lit, wasting no time in filling the round room with noxious smoke. "An intact mind," he murmured, "yet fragmented memories." He exhaled, and foggy coils of smoke drifted past the light. "Emotional reactions that don''t ring true of an amnesiac. A breathing fit that drew the attention of the fireflies. The need to be shocked into full consciousness ..." The beam of the lamp on his desk cut out each time he swept past it, like a boat surging before a lighthouse. "All of those symptoms fit that particular power." He stopped, then turned on his heel to face Elise. "But the power itself doesn''t fit. No one in Valens Valley can manipulate memories in a way that leaves such marks."


    "No one in Valens Valley <em class="western">lately," Marek said.


    The look Gerver gave him would have made Elise sink straight down through the floor if it had been directed at her. "Had Percival Platt been responsible for this, everyone would''ve known it."


    Although Elise would have sooner jumped off the nearest bridge than let that Platt fellow tinker with her mind, having someone to blame would have offered a small sliver of hope. A known obstacle invited possible solutions. "Then who''s done this to me?" she said.


    Gerver leaned back against his desk, then flicked a long cinder into the ashtray behind him without looking. "That is the question, isn''t it?" He propped the elbow of his dominant arm into his right palm; as he spoke, he drew off the cigarette cradled between his fingers. It seemed too practiced, too casual, that pose of his. A facade of calm control. The slight tremble in his fingers gave it away; had he not been steadying himself, he might have dropped his cigarette to the floor. If half of what Marek had said about Platt were true, it was difficult to blame Gerver for his reaction.


    "The likeliest answer is that someone in the Valley <em class="western">has learned to manipulate memories lately," Gerver said. "Whoever has tampered with your mind is hiding a secondary power."


    "Or he''s just ascended to Extra status," Marek said.


    After a pause, Gerver conceded this with a nod. "Yes, that is another theory."


    That explanation immediately lost her. "None of that seems very ''likely'' to me, I''m afraid."


    "Ah, yes," Gerver said, "how remiss of me to forget your forgetfulness. Allow me to explain." He tapped off his ashes again. "New Extraordinaries often have little control over their powers, which makes covering their tracks difficult." He paused, perhaps waiting for another interruption. None came, so he moved on. "That no one else in town has shown symptoms similar to yours suggests that our unknown friend has a degree of restraint more common to experienced freaks of nature."


    Marek frowned. "Yeah, a stacker would make more sense than a greenhorn." To Elise, he added, "That means someone who has stacked powers, one on top of another."


    Powers were frightening on their own. Now she had to contend with the constant possibility that people could be hiding more of them? Never let anyone say that life was fair. "Are ''stackers'' very common?" she said.


    "You''re looking at one of ''em." He smiled at the little jump she gave, then spoke to Gerver. "How many did you have at last count, teach?"


    The professor drew on his cigarette. "Too many," he said, from behind a length of ash. "But perhaps that is my price for surviving what had killed worthier people." He did not fail to see Elise''s round-eyed stare. "Your silence dismays me in the extreme, my dear. You used to be led around by your curiosity like a dog on a leash, and yet there you sit without barking any questions."


    Elise kept staring at him, but the reason for her shock had changed. Bastard. This complete bastard. Whatever he had survived couldn''t excuse his cruelty. She never knew quite where she stood with Marek, yet she knew exactly where she stood with Gerver ¡ª a million miles below him, eternally looked down upon. And it wasn''t right. He couldn''t talk to her that way.


    "Sir, you shou ¡ª" Marek began.


    She cut the boy off. "Do you hate all of your students, or am I a special case?" she said to the professor.


    Gerver turned to face his desk. "I''m a great believer in equality," he said, grinding his cigarette into the ashtray. "Everything in existence deserves my contempt."


    "I hope that includes you."


    Weariness traced his voice. "Rest assured that it does." If that was supposed to make her feel sorry for him, it didn''t work. He bowed over his desk, shoulders hunched and head down. When he spoke again, he sounded as dead as he looked. "Keep watch over the girl, Marek. Report any further instabilities to me."Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    The last word couldn''t belong to this bitter grotesque. She said, "<em class="western">The girl wants to know if she can report her instabilities to the clinic instead."


    "There''s no reason to do that, for nothing can be done."


    She bit her tongue. Not to hold back a reply, but because she didn''t have one. What could she say to a tyrant that would make him listen?


    "He''s right," Marek said, rushing to stand. "The best cure would be finding whoever did this to you and making them undo this whole mess, but we don''t have the first clue." He stepped in front of her, blocking Gerver from sight. That couldn''t have been by chance. "Waiting is all we have. The power''s hold on you will slip away. It already <em class="western">is slipping. That''s why you''ve been remembering things."


    People seemed to enjoy interrupting her, ignoring her objections, and letting her questions go unanswered. Her injuries hadn''t made her an invalid. "Do you really expect me to wait?" she said, frustration spilled into her words. "Wait for another attack, another fit?"


    "They''re not dangerous."


    "I couldn''t breathe!"


    His fingers twitched, the only sign of humanity that he gave. The emotion behind it could have been annoyance or worry or any number of things. Or maybe he only wanted to test that his hands still worked. "You would''ve," he said. "You would have, because that''s how it happens. They always start breathing again. Always."


    They? Victims, he meant. He thought of her as a victim, some poor creature that could only listen to whatever people told her to. An acidic laugh escaped her. "If that is how it happens, how it <em class="western">always happens, why bother bringing me out of it? I would''ve been fine without your help, wouldn''t I?"


    He adjusted his glasses, which were perfectly straight, and didn''t look at her. Coward. Both these men were cowards who twisted from her gaze and her questions. "You were afraid," he said, "and you being afraid, I couldn''t watch that."


    <em class="western">Why? she almost asked. Knew better than to ask, because the icy hand of fear gripped her heart again, warning her off. His true intentions, what could could they be? Why was he so worried for her? What had he gained by bringing her to speak with Gerver? The answer lurked at the forefront of her mind like an itch she couldn''t scratch, but if she stretched just a little ...


    "Do I know you?" she said.


    "No." He gave a thin smile. How could a smile look so unhappy? "No, I can''t say that you do, Ellsworth." He paused, which seemed unlike him. "We know <em class="western">of each other, but we don''t <em class="western">know each other. I told you something like that before in the clinic."


    Yes, he had told her that before, an answer that hadn''t been a real answer. <em class="western">It''s hard for us to escape each other in a town like Valens Valley. Hard for anyone. Lies. God, she hadn''t see it then, how he had lied. She saw it now. A stranger wouldn''t have just happened to check on her in the clinic in the middle of the night. A stranger wouldn''t have insisted on helping her over and over. A stranger wouldn''t have smiled the sad way that he had just smiled.


    "You told me a lot of things," she said. "Maybe I''ve forgotten some."


    No one could have missed an insinuation that obvious, and Marek certainly didn''t. He gave a frown so slight that it could have been the work of her imagination. But, as always, he smoothed out his ruffled feathers mighty quick. "If we were friends, I wouldn''t have let you forget me," he said, but his eyes didn''t meet hers.


    Another lie, one that proved she knew him and he knew her. But how?


    "If you''ve quite finished your row," Gerver said, in a low words that might have been forced through his teeth, "I''d like you both to leave."


    Elise jumped at this; she had forgotten the professor''s existence for a few blissful moments. She scowled at his back, then at the rest of him as she wheeled for the exit.


    * * *


    Marek took over her chair partway through their journey, for her anger, and the burst of speed it had given her, had dropped away once they left Gerver''s office behind. He opened the way to Hall Seven by leaning over her and tapping the silver door.


    The room behind it looked like a lot of other places in Rambling, with wall hangings over wainscoting. The similarities ended there. Cuir de Cordoue poppies covered the walls and ceiling, their gilding offset by claret-colored backing. The rich chocolate wood paneling the bottoms of walls in the Refectory and so many of the corridors was over-glazed here by fanciful columns of gold. Larger poppies constructed of golden wire canopied the ceiling in decorative mock panels; gaslights hung like pearl pendants from where those thick wires met. Delicate recessed shelves lined the walls, their wood traced by gilding. A massive painting of a woman in flowing silver and white robes hung over the low fireplace of polished malachite, both bordered by yet more gold. The black-veined white marble floor peeped like a picture frame from beneath a sizable rug that seemed inspired by mantelpiece in both pattern and color.


    In the center of all this richness rested hardwood furniture, inlaid and sinuous, separated into different sitting areas by folding screens.


    More revealed itself as Marek pushed her along. At the farthest end of the room, an open doorway led into a small library occupied by many tall shelves, along with tables and chairs suitable for the studious-minded and readers.


    People from fifty or sixty years ago must have found this place utterly luxurious, if it had existed then. Its beauty assaulted the senses so thoroughly that Elise could only stare as Marek brought her deeper into the Hall. Barring some of the fellow Hall Seven students who spoiled the grand sight, she recognized nothing of what she saw.


    "It sure is something, isn''t it?" he said.


    She tugged at her sleeves, fidgeting with sudden unease. He had noticed her gawking, and the weight of his attention gave her a frightful, yet wonderful thrill. "Yes," she said, "it certainly is something."


    Something she didn''t remember, but what else was new? What she could recall about herself amounted to a handful of minutes. Everything else about her life had been told to her by others like secondhand fairy tales. The previous Elise Ellsworth might as well have been a heroine from a storybook, all broad sketches and faint outlines: she had dark hair and a red mouth and a sweet soul.


    That girl must have been an accomplished liar if people imagined such nonsense to be true. Not all of her recovered memories had been pleasant. Who had she really been? What had she really known? <em class="western">Who had she known? Willow and the rest of the Herald staff had told her very little, all things considered. Everyone else had told her even less. But there had to be one person who would tell the truth, if only accidentally. A young man who kept insisting on helping her, for instance.


    "Your first name is Tarian, isn''t it?" she said. It wasn''t the most profound way to start a conversation.


    "Regrettably," he said, as he brought her to rest by a round table. It was surrounded by a trio of empty armchairs. He lowered himself into the tallest of the lot. "My middle name''s worse."


    She glanced from their table to those of the other students. The distance between them was considerable. If anyone wanted to listen in, they would be spotted before they reached the cozy corner where she sat with Marek. Without any further excuses left to distract her, she lined up her first shot and fired. "Why do you pretend?"


    A stoic mask fanned over his cheerful one like a ripple waving through a pond. "I don''t know what you mean," he said, his pronunciation shifting into the clear, careful precision that made him sound high class. Another act. How many of them did he have in his repertoire?


    "You''re not like you''d been before." The second shot hit its target the same as the first had. The tightening edges of his mask said as much. Good, she might finally get some answers out of him. He seemed prone to confession when his emotions came to the surface. "The night that you found me, the night that I''d awoken, you acted like a human being."


    He crossed his legs in a careless fashion, yet the rest of him tensed. "There''s something I haven''t been accused of before."


    "You''ve been like that just now, making jokes and being kind." Here came the third shot, and the trickiest. "Why aren''t you always like that to me?"


    His posture relaxed. Amusement suffused his face; the cheerful mask had returned. Her guaranteed bull''s-eye had sailed past him somehow. "Don''t try to needle me, Ellsworth," he said. "You''ll always be outclassed."


    "You''re avoiding my question."


    "There''s nothing to avoid ¡ª or there shouldn''t be. Didn''t your friends tell you that I''ve got two faces?"


    No one at the <em class="western">Herald had said much about him, as far as she could remember. Willow had mentioned him being weird beneath his smiles and politeness, then remarked that he hadn''t cared for anyone, male or female. At the time, it had seemed a comment on his love life, or lack thereof. Those words had a new cast to them after what he had just told her.


    She started to ask another unwise question, then stopped when her gaze snagged on a new sight. There, the muscles tensing in his cheek. That meant something. But what, exactly? Anger, certainly. Had she brought that out? No, he wasn''t looking at her. He was looking at ¡ª


    A witch-like cackle pierced the quiet atmosphere, and he gave a minute twitch. She traced the high-pitched sound straight to its source: in front of the empty fireplace where Abriana Adesso sat. That crane-like girl noticed the attention coming her way, then said something to the flunkies seated around her. They laughed and flashed smirks at Elise.


    Marek''s jaw tightened so much that he must have been grinding his teeth together.


    That was it, that was her answer for why he acted so different one moment and the next. Adesso, that Romilly fellow, and the rest of the hateful people in this Hall had pounced on Elise at the breakfast table for having the audacity to be alive. They hadn''t treated Marek much better when he had spoken up to tell Adesso she was wrong. He hadn''t been surprised by it, either, so insults from those quarters must have been a common event. What had Adesso told him?


    <em class="western">Please, you''re only saying that to defend yourself.


    Right. But why had Adesso said that? Elise frowned, trying to remember. Oh, yes, Adesso had been saying that people who felt sorry for Addies were trash, and insinuated that Elise had such sympathies. But Marek, he didn''t seem the sympathetic sort. He had to have been defending himself for another reason, and there was only one. His eyes, the unusual color of his eyes. He was an Addy. Charlotte had been one, and so was Ian. And they were reviled because of it.


    The way Marek acted, it was only self-defense. "Those two faces," she said, "maybe you need them in a place like this."


    His mask fell away entirely, revealing surprise. He pushed his disguise back into place. "Maybe," he said.


    Elise slumped against her chair in relief. One small mystery had been solved, that of his double-edged personality. How they knew one another would have to wait. Not for the first time today, her body seemed to have been filled with lead. She covered a yawn with the back of a hand. Her eyes burned with every blink she took. If she stayed awake any longer, she might fall asleep right where her wheelchair had been parked. "How do I get to the Persephone dorm?"


    "With that." He nodded to a golden-gated elevator by open archway; the second led into a stairwell. "Take it to the top, then find Room Twenty-Seven. That''s yours."


    What sort of stranger knew her room number? One who lied about being a stranger, that who. But now was not the time to argue about that topic again. "Thank you." She started to roll away from their table. Paused. "Marek?"


    His gaze alone questioned her. Light spilled from the library highlighted the slight, almost unnoticeable cleft of his chin. It looked like the perfect place to rest her thumb while tilting his face down to hers ¡ª down, for even when they were both seated he had the advantage of height. Then she could lean in and ...


    And not think about crazy things like this. Charlotte, she couldn''t forget Charlotte, the girl that she loved.


    But maybe she couldn''t forget Marek, either. Her body might remember what her brain couldn''t, might be reminding of the truth her through quickening pulse and fluttering breath. The possibility stoked a dangerous interest that had been smoldering inside her since ... Well, she couldn''t be sure when it had really started, but she couldn''t feed that interest. Trust wasn''t something she could afford. Not now.


    "Goodnight," she said.


    His smile, soft and real, broke her heart just a little. "Goodnight, Ellsworth."


    That name sounded pleasant for once. Mood lightened a sliver, she left him behind. If he saw her looking back more times than she should have, he hid his notice quite well.

 No Accident 19

    Elise launched out of the elevator so fast that she almost hit the wall opposing the shaft. The scissor gate closed behind her with a laugh-like creak. Rambling Manor had no end to its surprises. She struggled to reorient her wheelchair. Her arms gave pained protests the entire time, then kept giving them well after she restarted her journey. Only halfway down the long corridor did she notice the numbers on the doors. Rooms Ten, Eight, Six ¡ª she was going in the wrong direction!


    She wasted more of her precious strength turning around. By the time she actually reached the twenties of the east-facing end, she was blinking frequently. Nothing else helped to keep her sleepy eyes open, not even the passing doors that differed in color and decoration. She could barely read their numbers. The odds were on her right, and so too would be her destination. Room Twenty-Three, Room Twenty-Five, Room Twenty-Seven. Ah, finally.


    Now she could appreciate at least one door: her own. Carved pomegranates and lush branches covered the dark wood. She touched the golden handle and a lock clunked loose behind the keyhole. The Manor must have had unlocked it for her. Had it known that she didn''t have a way in? But how could a building know anything? For that matter, how could it change its own decorations or turn its own lights on and off or do anything that it had done?


    Her head spun with the possibilities. She could puzzle out the details from someone tomorrow, after she had rested.


    The door pushed open easily at her touch, and behind it sat a room with same style as the rest of the Hall: richly-colored decor that would have been popular after the turn of the century. A single pendant gaslight hung from a ceiling dense with gilt vines. Deep red pomegranates popped against a background of leafy green wallpaper, a theme that carried into the half dozen paintings and the delicately curving furniture. Books lined the many shelves built into the walls, and formed stiff-backed islands on a desk by the window. A half-open door led into the tiled throat of room that likely housed a bath and lavatory. All of it was beautiful, but what captured her gaze again and again was the fantastical bed that appeared to be carved from a tree that had grown into a twisted bow-like shape. Roots cradled the mattress below, and boughs dripped diaphanous curtains from above.


    Bed covers had never looked so inviting. She propelled herself into the room, and the door clicked shut behind her. Once out of the chair, her unsteady legs held her upright long enough for her to change into nightgown. They carried her to bed, too. The lamp overhead winked out, and she muttered her thanks. It seemed the polite thing to do. She nestled her head into her pillow, closing her eyes against the


    * * *


    Light.


    Someone has turned on a light in her room. Heart thumping, her eyes fly open. Soft light pours through the window between the curtains she neglected to close the night before. It''s only morning. She slept ceaselessly through the night, and now she is awake.


    The room looks different by daylight. No, it <em class="western">is different. Isn''t it? Oh, that can''t be true. She was so tired last night that she just didn''t pay much attention to anything, that''s all.


    She pushes out of bed, an action that shakes off some sleepiness. The shock of the cold floor beneath her feet wakes her the rest of the way. She scurries into the bathroom to find that the tiles even colder. At least it isn''t marble like downstairs. Midway through brushing her teeth, it hits her: there is no one to observe her, no one to tell her to keep a tight schedule, no one to herd her about. Today is Sunday and she can take her time, and so she will ¡ª after she hastily spits out her mouthful of gritty tooth powder, that is.


    A bath, she must have one. The deep copper bathtub is perfect for luxuriating, as is the hot water that streams out of its faucet.


    When she finishes her soak, she does not look in the bathroom mirror. Nothing changes in the glass. She feels what she avoids seeing when drying off, though. Fingertips accidentally graze the unbroken scar that neatly trails up her torso. Her touch doesn''t linger. It never does. Touching means remembering the ugliness of her body, and the ugliness of other things. Like what caused the scars beneath each collarbone, or how they join in a fork to met the larger scar. She finishes drying herself, then slips into the dressing gown hanging from a hook by the door. Her hair takes longer to manage; its straightness gives her little trouble with brushing, but the length ¡ª exactly to her shoulders when wet ¡ª is an irritation. Perhaps she''ll try another style soon, something short and easy to dry.


    She pads barefooted into her bedroom. There isn''t much clothing in her wardrobe, yet making a selection is difficult. What would be right? That pastel blouse with the brown skirt, maybe? Or would it be better to go with a sweater and slacks? No, non, none of that. Her uniform. She needs to get used to wearing it.


    Elise doesn''t look at herself in the mirror standing by the vanity until she is fully dressed. It''s to straighten her clothes, not admire them.


    Ridiculous. That is exactly what she looks like, ridiculous. What sort of college institutes a uniform for its students? And what a uniform this is: a jacket, a cardigan, a darned tie. Well, all right, the skirt isn''t so bad. Sort of pretty, like the feathers of a grey dove. And the low heels, those are all right, too. Brown leather has always suited her more than black. But everything else? How can anyone stand it?


    The usual pains pulse down her chest, reminding her of needs that must be fed. She goes to the nightstand where she left her necklace yesterday. Her hands are shaking when she gets the vial out of its pendant, and she almost drops her medicine. It wouldn''t have been a great loss if she had; there''s only a quarter left. Still a close call, though. Five drops, she can have five today. That many at once will last for a while since she isn''t so bad today, not after that warm bath.


    Five drops fall onto her tongue. Her pain almost disappears. She fumbles the vial again when the knock comes, an insistent <em class="western">tap-tap-tap that refuses to be ignored. She stows her silvery little secret around her neck and beneath her blouse before answering the door.


    A girl radiant with happiness greets her, and it isn''t one with a number 7 on her tie''s stickpin. "Well, look at you up bright and early!"


    Charlotte is here. How is she here?


    The other girl pushes past Elise into the room, not bothering to shut the door behind her; it does that itself. She whirls around, inspecting everything. The sun catches the hair that falls in stylish waves halfway down her neck, the brightest points of light glinting there like rubies. She looks as if she''s dressed for a date, lovely new handbag included. "This is terrific," she says. "A little old-fashioned, but terrific." She plops down on the bed, which must have made itself when Elise was in the bath. "Rambling must really like you; my room took three whole months before it finally started changing."This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Elise is staring. She shouldn''t stare, not at Charlotte''s long legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Looking away doesn''t curb her risky thoughts. Curling her hands into fists helps her to concentrate, not the least because her her fingernails are close to drawing blood out of her palms. "The rooms change, too?" she says, reaching for the first thing she can think of. "Not just the wallpaper?"


    "Yep." Charlotte beams. "Isn''t it nice?"


    "Is that what you came sneaking into a different Hall to tell me? I thought it was something urgent." While that helpfully gave an explanation for the differences that Elise has noticed in her room, it isn''t exactly the sort of thing that would have pushed Charlotte into breaking the rules. There has to be something more to this visit.


    Charlotte primly crosses one ankle over the other, then smooths out the fabric of her daring black and red dirndl skirt. "I didn''t sneak anywhere; I''m an Underseer, remember?"


    Elise lowers herself into the chair by her desk. It had been a plain wooden one yesterday, but now sported gorgeous inlay and plush upholstery. "I couldn''t forget that after the party we had in the name of your new title," she says. "Ian ate three whole pieces of the congratulations cake that Stella baked you, then he spoiled Ash''s backseat with them."


    "Ash deserved it for racing around like he did. I thought he''d kill us in that old hot rod of his!"


    The girls share a laugh. Yes, this is how it should be. The two of them as friends, and that is all. That is enough.


    Like all good things between them, it doesn''t last as long as it should. Glancing at her watch sends Charlotte to her feet. "It''s breakfast in ten minutes. We''d better hurry if we want to have anythi ¡ª" The older girl stops talking as she catches sight of Elise''s face. She expels a put-upon sigh. "No makeup, Ellie? You do realize that you are in college, don''t you? A college full of fine young gentlemen?"


    A terrible heat seeps into Elise''s cheeks. Gentlemen haven''t concerned her lately, but she can''t say that. It would destroy their friendship in an instant. "I don''t need it, really I don''t."


    All protests are in vain, for Charlotte drops her handbag on the desk like a crate of munitions. She starts hauling out so much feminine weaponry that Elise freezes at the sight. Half of that stuff looks like it could help lead to a long and lustrous career as a circus clown. Charlotte considers her powder compact for a moment before setting it aside with a comment on their skin tones being too different. Elise turns her head away once an appropriate shade of lipstick is brandished at her, but a thumb presses to the dip just beneath her lower lip. "Let me," Charlotte says, curling her fingers around Elise''s chin.


    They''re so close right now that their warmth mingles in the air between them. Elise wants to lean back as much as she wants to lean in. She can''t. Think, she has to think. "Didn''t you say that my mouth is red enough without covering it up?"


    A frown crimps Charlotte''s forehead. "I said that because your parents still wouldn''t let you wear makeup after your eighteenth birthday, and I wanted to cheer you up about it." A note of rebuke creeps into her voice. "But you''re in college now. There are girls getting married at your age. We have to think about those sort of things."


    "You make it sound like you want to marry me off."


    Charlotte''s mouth purses. "Oh, all right," she says, "no lipstick." She taps the tip of a finger against Elise''s lips, a touch that makes the shorter girl shiver. "It would be a shame to cover that cute little cupid''s bow of yours, anyway, even if the shape''s unfashionable."


    That remark doesn''t leave Elise feeling as grateful as she should. That gratitude sinks even lower when eye makeup is announced as a must. Charlotte hums as she works, then finally stands back when satisfied by the carnage she has wrought. "Well, at least you listened to me and started shaping your eyebrows," she says, "though I do wish you''d try something a little more dramatic with them."


    Elise lets herself be pulled up, then steered to the vanity by her bed. It''s no use turning away from her reflection; a standing mirror is right beside it. There hadn''t been that many looking glasses in her quarters last night. Charlotte urges her forward a few more paces, and Elise forces her head up. For a moment, it''s like staring through a window at a stranger. Her eyes seem almost pretty done up in pale green shadow and dark pencil. Is it possible for her to be pretty?


    "What is it?" Charlotte says. "What''s wrong?"


    "Nothing''s wrong, exactly." Elise leans in for a closer look at herself. "It''s just ..."


    Just that she looks like any other girl. Just that she can be normal. Just that she isn''t ugly. But the words stick in her throat, thank God. If she mentions being ugly, then Charlotte would demand to know why, soothing Elise with words and caresses until the truth came out, the truth of those hidden and dangerous scars. And Elise couldn''t stop what would happen to Charlotte after that confession.


    Charlotte''s reflection steps into view. "It''s just right," she says. "That shadow brings out the color in your eyes." She puts an arm around Elise''s shoulders, and the sudden contact makes the shorter girl go still. "You''re lucky you know, having hazel instead of boring brown like me."


    "I have brown, too," Elise says. "Right there in the middle of all that green." Before she can hold herself back, she adds, "And you''re not boring, you''re beautiful. I love your eyes." She bites her tongue. God, she might as well have said <em class="western">I love you. Did Charlotte hear that in her voice?


    A grin sparkles on Charlotte''s face, and Elise almost sags with relief. "You''ve always had bad taste." She checks her watch again, gaiety disappearing. "Darn, we''re going to be late!"


    They hurry out of the dorm, heading for the stairs. Upon reaching the landing to the second floor, Charlotte cries out that she''s forgotten her purse. She tells Elise to wait while she rushes up and gets her things. "I''ll grab your bag, too, while I''m at it," she says, just before she ducks back upstairs.


    It''s the sensible choice to let Charlotte go alone, as she''s both taller and faster. With little else to do, Elise leans her back against the one of the stairwell''s walls, and waits. A boy pushes the door to the second floor open. She jolts with recognition just as he jolts in surprise. That dark copper hair and those Addy eyes are an unmistakable combination.


    "Oh, um, hello," she says. "Good morning, I mean." She attempts a smile, though it stretches uncomfortably on her face. "It''s nice seeing you, Marek."


    The use of his name seems to awaken him from his blank staring. "Is it nice?" he says. "Seeing me?"


    The question takes her aback. She him over for a long moment. Is it nice, seeing him? He is wearing his uniform like she is, though his looks much better on him. And he''s no longer the boy she last saw as when he was a senior at their old high school; at nineteen, he''s finally started to come into that good jawline of his. Her gaze finds his mouth next, one that has a shape and color not much different from her own, though the bow of them is a bit less pronounced than hers. She has wondered more than once what it might feel like to kiss such similar lips.


    Her skin runs hot and cold all over. There must be something wrong with her. First she liked him, then Charlotte, then him again. Couldn''t she just stick with one and stop being so confused?


    "Something on my face, Ellsworth?" he says.


    There is, technically. The light coming through the stained glass skylight throws patches of color on him, as if he''s stepped into a cloud of butterflies. Saying something so silly aloud would embarrass them both, so she doesn''t. "N-no, I was just" ¡ª not going to let him know what she is really thinking ¡ª "startled. Your question startled me, that''s all. Of course it''s good to see you." She tries smiling again, and this time it''s a natural one. "You''re always a welcome sight."


    "Am I?" His voice is cool, measured, careful.


    Everything he has said to her so far has been a question, each one short to the point of curtness. He doesn''t want to talk to her. That stings more than she likes admitting. It''s foolish of her to have kept some small candle burning for him through the years, but even now she doesn''t have it in her to douse the flame. That doesn''t mean, of course, that she wants to be burned by bad habits or worse attitudes.


    "Yes," she says to him, "until a moment ago, you were very welcome."


    He doesn''t reply. Just stares. His eyes seem more intense than usual. Why? He isn''t wearing his glasses, but it''s not just that. Something else about his expression draws her in. If she got a little closer to him, she might ¡ª


    A clatter yanks her gaze up. An unseen Charlotte starts complaining about their lack of time, saying that she ought to drag Ellie back up into the room and put her in something more attractive than a uniform. Elise looks back to an empty space where once stood a boy. The only traces he has left of himself are the footfalls fading below her and the lingering

 No Accident 20

    Dark.


    Everything was dark. Why was it so dark? The stairwell had been flooded by sunlight, not gaslights, and no one had the power to turn out the sun.


    She started to call out to Charlotte, but couldn''t.


    A memory attack. She was having one. <em class="western">Breathe, open your mouth and breathe. God, please breathe, you need to breathe ...


    Couldn''t, she couldn''t. She''d die for lack of air while surrounded by it. Her body scorched with that painful need. Her back arched against the bed, driving her head into the pillows. Her hands scrabbled uselessly at the bed covers. Tears sprang from her eyes as they opened, catching flashes of purple lightning in the blackened bedroom.


    Then she choked out a breath. Dragged in another and another and another. Watched the fireflies ¡ª not lightning at all ¡ª twirl above her. Wiped the tears from her face.


    A thought rattled around and around in her head like the fireflies going around and around the room: Marek hadn''t been lying about her being able to breathe on her own again. Being kissed out of an attack had been nicer than waiting for one to end. She sat up, groping for the lamp next to the bed, then switched it on to a low level. Her eyes pulsed and ached from the slightest wobble of the flame. The fireflies hovered restlessly around her. "I''m fine," she told them, voice rusty.


    They started turning green only when she hobbled to her desk, but none of them left. Just as well. She would get no more sleep tonight, not that she would have had much time for it left; the clock on the mantel of her small fireplace drew another minute closer to five.


    Charlotte and Marek. Elise had dreamt of them both. She drummed her half-asleep fingers on the top of her desk, which woke them a little. Dreamt? No, that was wrong. She had <em class="western">remembered, not dreamt. That memory had come to her unlike the others. Not as a foreign fragment that seemed to belong to someone else, but something she had experienced, something she had lived, something that was hers. Little else felt like hers, down to the very clothes she wore. The same could be said for this room and the things in it.


    But why had this memory felt so different? She would ask Marek. He might know.


    Her eye caught on a row of four books pushed against the wall at the middle of her desk. They looked like a series of slim leather-backed novels, only novels didn''t generally have locks on them. She freed one from the others. On the front was handwritten <em class="western">FALL ¡ª 1954. That was this year, this season. The book wasn''t a book, but a diary. Its covers didn''t budge when she pried at them. Just her luck that she had come across a set of diaries with locks actually worth a damn.


    She hunted for the key. There wasn''t one among or beneath the other diaries, books, and papers on the desk; or in any of the drawers or underneath them; or under the desk itself. She climbed back into her chair, rubbing at her throbbing legs through her nightgown.


    The diaries, maybe they had a clue on them about where the key was. They showed nothing except the seasons written on their fronts: the fall and winter of this year, then the spring and summer of the next. Her forefinger slid down the cover of the fall diary only to snag on the lock. Something bit at her skin. She drew her hand back, wincing. A small piece of needle-like metal protruded from the tiny keyhole of the lock, wet with blood. It sank into the diary. A click sounded.


    She touched the diary again, waiting for another trick. Nothing happened, so she opened it and read:


    TAKE YOUR MEDICINE.


    UP TO 11 DROPS EVERY 7 HOURS.


    NO MORE THAN 11, OR EXPECT BAD THINGS.


    "Bad things?" she said. "What bad things?" If the diary knew which answer was the correct one, it wasn''t giving it.


    OTHER VIALS CAN BE FOUND IN THE FALSE BOTTOM OF THE RED VALISE, ALONG WITH ALL YOU NEED. IF YOU RUN OUT, MAKE MORE ACCORDING TO INSTRUCTIONS.


    DO NOT DEVIATE.


    She flipped the pages to find them blank. The other diaries, which also opened by tasting her blood, were completely empty. The red valise, there might be something in that, wherever it was. But there was no such valise in sight, not in the wardrobe or in the corner of the room or ... Ah, there it was, just under the bed.


    Her legs protested as she knelt down to fetch it. The thing was the width of a hat box, but much deeper. Heavier than it looked, too. It took several frustrating minutes before she dragged it out, then several more to open the thing ¡ª it had a key in the lock, but the false bottom proved tricky. Inside that concealed compartment were a dozen small vials of silvery medicine cushioned in cotton batting, half of them empty; a folded piece of paper that appeared to be a route to "spider''s kitchen," whatever that was; tiny jars and packets labeled with strange or foul things like bone meal, dried blood, and tears of laughter; and a single thin book labeled <em class="western">RECIPES, which proved to be filled with numbered but nameless dishes that no one would eat even if they were starving.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    What had the instruction in the fall diary said? Vials. All that she needed in the red valise. No, these weren''t recipes for food, but for ... whatever it was they were for.


    She read the recipe book, hunting for another clue. Several entries in, she found one. "Number Seven: Silver in color when viable, intended for pain, healing, and sleep," she read. "This has to be the same as all that stuff in the vials." Could she really make something like that? "One drop per ten pounds of body weight. Hm, that explains the eleven drops." She stretched out her aching legs on the floor, then kept going. "Overuse can result in hallucinations and self-harm ..." She looked to the fireflies still weaving around her. "Is that safe? It must be safe in the right doses. It isn''t as it''d be a great danger to me, not when my body can rebuild itself."


    They blinked at her in senseless splashes of light. Right, no help there. She should probably stop talking to mechanical fireflies before it started to seem normal. But she couldn''t help one more comment. "And it can help me sleep, if I ever have trouble with that."


    Elise yawned, because sleep sounded wonderful once more. Searching first for the unnecessary (and nonexistent) key to the diaries, then for the valise had worn her down again. She returned to bed too tired to turn out the light, and did not wake until the sun rose. By then, the fireflies had gone and the lamp had been switched off.


    Rambling was strange, but it had its conveniences.


    * * *


    Dressing in a stranger''s clothes. That was what this felt like. She hadn''t selected the uniform that she had folded and set aside the evening before, nor had she taken one of its sisters from the wardrobe. It was a Sunday, and she could wear something else when classes were not in session. She had chosen a shirtwaist dress that belted across her middle; its checked emerald and celadon gabardine suited her complexion nicely.


    For shoes, she almost settled on a pair of tame brown pumps. Low heels the very color of a fire engine before she could. That shade of red looked almost exactly the same as the dress Charlotte had been wearing in her latest memory. She took them up without hesitation.


    Next, she got gloves and a light coat in case she decided to go outside ¡ª unlikely, considering her wheelchair, but still possible. All that done, she limped over to her vanity. Her reflection looked as ghost-like as it had in all the other mirrors of this room, but perhaps it could be improved. Makeup sat inside a little box close by, all the expected things that a girl might need for her face. At the bottom of the box rested several sheaves of paper, which she took out. No, just one bit of paper, and several pages that looked as if they had been cut from a magazine. It was an article on how to put on makeup according to face types. The facial diagram with the word "oblong" next to it had been circled multiple times in red ink. On the note was written:


    <em class="western">Ellie ¡ª


    <em class="western">Just follow these instructions and you can go outside without scaring anyone.


    <em class="western">Love,


    <em class="western">Charlotte


    <em class="western">PS ¡ª I mean it!


    Something halfway between a sob and a laugh worked out of Elise into an all-mad noise. She could not remember much of her life, but the consequences and habits of it still made themselves keenly known. It was as if she had been shoved into a dark room and left to find her way through by touch alone, here banging her arm on a hard-edged sideboard, there cutting the sole of her foot on a broken glass. Every now and again she brushed up against an object, or spied one from the light coming beneath the door that had been closed behind her, and the shape of this half-seen thing triggered in her emotions without rational cause for them.


    Looking at this note, her chest and throat had tightened, her eyes had stung, her heart ached, yet she wanted to laugh, too, because the note was perfectly Charlotte according to her intuition, whatever "perfectly Charlotte" meant. She read it a dozen more times until her crazy urge to laugh subsided, then set it aside. There was work to be done. She couldn''t disappoint Charlotte.


    Making her face presentable took longer than she liked, but going slow was necessary. Any mistakes would have meant wasting more time. When she looked as good as she was going to get, she put away her makeup, then headed to the small table by her wardrobe where she had set her things. After a moment''s hesitation, she grabbed her book bag hanging from a hook on the wall. She shoved her gloves into it, put the bag on, and, last of all, slid into her coat. It was light enough to wear indoors. Something in the coat slapped heavily against her side. What could that be?


    Rummaging through the correct pocket brought up a thin book wrapped in a piece of brown paper, like a parcel. The words <em class="western">HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ELLIE! were scrawled on the front in block letters. She undid the twine, and found herself looking at another diary. This one had <em class="western">C. C. written on the front.


    "Are you Charlotte''s?" she said. "You must be, I think. Look at those letters. That''s her handwriting, just like the note." She glanced to the lock, which seemed an ordinary one after she dragged her finger down it and no needle came out. Its lock held at her attempt to open it. "Just as well. I wouldn''t want to read you even if you were open; the dead should be allowed their secrets."


    She placed the diary back in her coat. It felt nice carrying something that belonged to Charlotte. Proof that such a girl had existed outside Elise''s head. She went to crumple the brown paper and stopped. Writing covered the half of it that had been facing the diary. Her eyes traced the words at the very top:


    SUSPECTS


    Below that, it listed <em class="western">Friends, <em class="western">Enemies, and <em class="western">Neutrals. No definitions were necessary when she saw the names in each category. <em class="western">Friends included only Willow, Ash, Ian, and Stella. <em class="western">Enemies had Adesso, Romilly, and several other names she didn''t recognize. <em class="western">Neutrals contained twenty or so names, two of which were familiar ¡ª Marek and Gerver. Her fingers trembled down this terrible list until she reached the admonition to TRUST NO ONE at the bottom.


    She had written this. It was the very cursive she had used when signing forms in the clinic, or taking notes from the books and things that Marek had let her borrow during her recovery. That hand had also been in the fall diary, and the recipe book. But why had she written this?


    "It''s a note to myself," she said, with sudden clarity, "just like the others." She frowned. "But that makes no sense. Why did I do that? How could I have known ¡ª"


    There was her answer.


    "I knew my memories would be manipulated before they were. I <em class="western">knew." Her gaze fell on the list of suspects. "One of you did that, didn''t you?" She grazed her fingers over those silent names. Yes, one of them knew, and she was going to find out who that person was. Charlotte deserved justice.

 Payments, Various 1

    The twisting stairs undulate under the light and shadows like the iron-black bones of an ancient serpent. Looking down through the loose weave of her eyelashes, it almost seems as if scales are rippling over muscles as the wyrm turns, turns, turns up into the darkened gorge of the tower. She can''t stand here forever, not after hearing the scream, the snap, the silence. Yet her feet only curl around the edge of the grated landing, pressing the metal hard into her bare soles. Something lurks below, and she can''t look, won''t look, because to look at a monster is to be devoured by it.


    But


    (the scream, the snap, the silence)


    curiosity and fear, those mismatched twins, propel her to take a step. She is helpless to go against a warning once it is given, like a girl in a myth. Do not open that door, do not open that jar, do not look back. Her descent is as inevitable as a leaf falling from a tree.


    Just above the first story the light solidifies. See what you should not see. Something rests at the bottom of the Great Spiral, and it is not supposed to be there. Something dark and hunched and alone. Something familiar.


    Her next step slips. She catches the handrail almost too late, straining her arm with her off-balanced weight. The pain is a distant scream compared to her heartbeat. Her monster has revealed itself, and it looks very small against its ever-spreading pool of blood. What propels her now are


    (the scream, the snap, the silence)


    gravity and dread. Its face, she must see the face of that thing below, and so she keeps going.


    Blood has reached the stairs when she steps off them, the heat and slickness of it obscene as it squelches underfoot. It isn''t the only obscenity. That blood shines a garnet against the dark marble floor with facets pricked by lamplight. The sprawl of the corpse is elegant and inflexible, like a martyred saint captured in Baroque oils. Gore and shit and flowers thicken the air, a stinking stew complemented by


    (the scream, the snap, the silence)


    a low moan of terror. That dread sound is of her own body, not the one just ahead. Her toes brush something hard, and she reels back. A high-heeled shoe, that is what she has knocked into. It is detritus in her path. Forward, forward, she must go forward. There is not much farther to go. A few paces, that is all. She leans down when she reaches the corpse. It is a woman, this thing, with hair fanned out into the blood like dark water weeds. Light flashes on its half-curled hand ¡ª on something <em class="western">attached to its hand. A ring of two intertwined bands, one gold with rubies, one silver with emeralds.


    God, that ring, it belongs to ¡ª


    "Charlotte."


    The name echoes off the walls and up the clock tower and in her head. Charlotte, that is Charlotte. Elise collapses, knees striking the floor hard. Blood soaks her clothes, but that doesn''t matter. She reaches out a shaking hand, then turns the dead girl''s face towards the light.


    Her eyes stare in stark, riveted horror at what she finds. There is no looking away. Bluebeard''s wives, Pandora contrite, a pillar of salt is she, repentant in the aftermath. Oh, why has she looked at this face? It is a face she has loved, a face she has detested, a face she has seen in countless mirrors. Her own face.


    She shutters her eyes, but it is late, far too late. All evils have fled the <em class="western">pithos, and not even hope dwells at the bottom. Her mind has emptied, too, as if all fear has slithered through a hole in her skull. The dead cannot fear the worst when the worst has already happened to them. Blood cools and congeals beneath her, against her, yet she stays in place. This is her blood, it belongs with her, just as she belongs with her corpse.


    Then a sound:


    <em class="western">Drip. Like a single bead of poison falling into a glass, tainting life-giving water with death. Thirst throbs on her tongue, and she


    * * *


    opened her eyes to a fortress of tomes, an opened book bag, and a pillow of notepaper. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her face, then peeked around the books stacked before her. The few people scattered around the tables in front of hers seemed too involved in their own studies to notice her. A good thing, too, because the ugly scars on her chest and stomach had started aching again. She returned behind her wall of books, the perfect sanctuary for anyone who wished to take seven drops of a silvery mystery medicine.


    Her drops washed away the pain of old injuries. Injuries that, according to the memory she had gained during last night''s sleep, had been too dangerous for her to tell Charlotte about. A different kind of pain throbbed in her chest at that thought, not only because it reminded her of Charlotte, but because she had forgotten whatever had given her those scars. They had been older than she had imagined; her accident had not been the cause of them. Something else had made them, or ¡ª she touched one of the scars through the fabric of her blouse, just above her cardigan vest ¡ª <em class="western">maybe someone else. The scars were too straight and regular to have been the result of a random mishap. But the truth, no matter how dangerous, was lost to her now.


    "Oh, good, you really did come here."


    Elise looked up to see Stella gazing over the wall of books. "Good morning," she said. "It is still morning, isn''t it? I ... I lost track of time."


    "Unless the universe has reordered itself without my noticing, you have the time of day right," Stella said, with no sarcasm at all. She then sank down out of sight. An unseen chair scraped against the floor.


    Leaving the books up while someone had come to talk would have been rude, so Elise started taking them down. As she did so, she spoke with the other girl. "Have you come to study, too?" she said. "That''s what I''ve been doing. I studied a little while I was in the clinic, but I really need to catch up with what I''ve missed before classes start again tomorrow."


    Stella, who was becoming steadily revealed as Elise demolished the book fortress, was bent over several sheets of paper on her side of the table. "No studying for me. I''m working on columns for the <em class="western">Herald."


    "Oh," Elise said. "Oh, yes, of course."


    Taking a box of pencils from her book bag, Stella said, "You don''t need to try so hard."


    Elise almost dropped a large book on the flight patterns of seabirds that had somehow been necessary on one of the assignments that Gerver had given out while she was unconscious. She tried not to fidget, or flee. Just because Stella was a suspect didn''t mean that she had murdered Charlotte, or that she knew she was on a list. All Elise needed to do was act normally. "What do you mean?"


    "To pretend." Stella selected a yellow pencil, then scribbled a few notes in the margin of her paper, the bulk of which was filled with numerous paragraphs in tiny purple writing. "If you don''t remember me, you don''t remember me. There''s nothing either of us can do about that." After a pause, she added more to her notation. "But we can start again as friends, if you like."


    If Elise couldn''t stop imagining Stella shove Charlotte down the Great Spiral Staircase, that offer might have made her smile. <em class="western">Never turn your back on those who might stab it, Gerver advised in her head. Damn him for being right, even an imaginary version of him. With the staff of the University''s newspaper all being on her list, she had no better way to keep track of them than friendship. And her memory loss would allow her to excuse any misgivings she might show toward her old friends.


    What she had to do was clear.


    "All right," Elise said. "Let''s start again."


    Stella smiled, and Elise forced herself to do the same. They soon returned to what they had been doing before. Elise finished placing her books into proper stacks on her left and right, then went back to her studies. Difficult as it was to sit at the same table as a potential murderer, her attention quickly wandered; she leaned back in her wheelchair to allow her gaze to do the same.


    Fortunately, a distraction came in the form of architecture, which had to be a lost love of hers considering all that she seemed to know about it. The Reading Room, as the library was called in the University''s handbook, was square-shaped, deep, and lofty. It vaulted three stories high plus a little more, with a domed skylight at the very center. Golden scales fanned out from the rectangle of leaded glass like the fronds of a fern over the ceiling, the latter of which was painted a gorgeous sapphire. Hanging from the skylight was a tremendous unlit chandelier of iron; it would doubtlessly look beautiful in the evening, light shining down on the neat rows of tables on the first floor.


    A gunshot thud sounded above, and her attention turned to the galleries held aloft by twisting columns of dark wood. Windows there let in the day above the tops of the shelves, as they did on the levels above and below.


    "This column is ..." Stella began, drawing Elise''s stare. She twirled a new pencil, this one bright green, between her forefinger and thumb. "This column is a very important column, but I don''t think the sender needs my advice anymore."


    Oh, right, Stella worked on the newspaper''s advice column, didn''t she? Elise fixed her face into what she hoped would be an expression of interest. "Why not?"


    "The relationship that she was so worried about, the one with an Extraordinary, it''s over."


    A moment passed before Elise worked that out. "Does that mean she''s an Addy, this letter-writer of yours?" She shook her head. "Of course she must be. Why else mention his Extraordinary status if she had it?"


    Stella watched Elise with a startling amount of concentration. She seemed to be waiting for more, and when Elise didn''t give it, she spoke. "I''m not sure what to do with this, and you are the acting editor."


    Yes, so Elise was. Though finding the suspect list had spoiled any happiness she had about being a member of the <em class="western">Herald''s staff, she couldn''t shirk her duties. That would invite suspicion. Besides, something in her balked at the suggestion that she leave her responsibilities behind. She had enjoyed working on the paper yesterday. No one, not even Charlotte''s murderer, could take that small happiness away from Elise now. "Give an answer and publish it," she said. "Willow mentioned yesterday that you ¡ª that we don''t have enough material for next week''s issue, so we should use it." This suggestion hadn''t seemed to offend Stella, but it was difficult to tell when the other girl rarely seemed to move the muscles in her face. "You don''t think the sender will mind, do you?"This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Mercy existed in the universe, because Stella finally looked down at the letter in front of her. "No, I think she''s incapable of minding these days."


    That sounded like a yes. "Good, then we won''t have a problem."


    The two girls returned to what they had been doing before, Stella writing and Elise avoiding everything important. Other students came and went over the large black and white marble diamonds of the floor, footsteps echoing in the library''s quiet and page-musty air. Some students stayed in the main room, but others went to the additions at the north, south, and west. When Elise had been hunting the stacks earlier for one particular volume or another, she had glimpsed those three other rooms. Narrow and rectangular, but just as tall as the central room, they contained more shelves and reading areas that included comfortable-looking armchairs. These spaces were, like their mother, rendered in a curious mix of Gothic-Renaissance revival, each one bearing a plaque outside their doorways with the name and color of their rooms: Amethyst, Jet, and Pearl. As evidenced by his Manor, Lord Rambling had been a man with delightful taste, but she couldn''t spend all day staring at walls. She returned to her studies, which mostly involved reminding her of the things she hadn''t forgotten: her university courses.


    A long time later, she stretched in her wheelchair and checked the time on the clock attached to the second-story gallery. Just after ten. Nearly two hours had passed since she had first entered the Reading Room. She covered a yawn, then caught the scent of pleasant and familiar perfume.


    "I''ve done my part," said its owner.


    Elise turned to face Willow, and found a stack of typed papers spread before her face like the world''s largest playing cards. Several of the pages had headlines. "You''ve finished everything already?"


    "Of course." Willow perched on the corner of the table, a brazenness that was allowed by the equally brazen cigarette pants that she wore. Few girls at the University seemed to wear anything except for skirts or dresses. The high waist and polka dots made for an eye-catching outfit paired with that turtlenecked blouse of hers. Too casual to wear outside the home or a picnic, perhaps, but she did look terrific. "A girl with a beauty like mine can''t help but know the subject."


    "I''ll say," Elise agreed. She took the articles, then began reading.


    What she saw may as well have passed for bizarre code. Elise had only relearned how to apply basic makeup this morning ¡ª and she had done so with a light and shaky hand ¡ª but what Willow had written was an assault against nature. According to her advice, green or gold eye shadow was a must for fashionable ladies this December, along with bold red lipstick. The suggestions for red, white, and green clothes to be worn during the weekends and evenings left Elise imagining girls going about like giant Christmas ornaments.


    How could someone who came up with ideas like this have possibly been a suspect for Charlotte''s death? Elise almost yanked the brown paper list out of her book bag so she could strike Willow''s name from it.


    "That one''s for the holidays," Willow said, "but the one for next month is underneath. The theme for it is Halloween, of course."


    "It''s, uh, very creative," Elise said. She almost patted herself on the back for getting the words out without dying of laughter. "Holly berries for earrings shall certainly cause a stir in December." She glanced at the beauty advice for October and almost choked. Orange blouses with black or green skirts? Good Lord, if any girls actually heeded this advice, it would look like pumpkins were roving the corridors.


    Stella, who had been reading the beauty articles upside down from her side of the table, spoke up. "Yes, holly berries would go handsomely with tinsel braided in hair."


    Willow narrowed her eyes, as if she suspected mockery. She wasn''t alone in that.


    "Should I go with silver or gold tinsel?" Stella said, seemingly unaware of the skepticism directed her way. "I can never remember which one flatters me."


    After a long moment of scrutiny, Willow spoke. "Silver."


    "Silver!" Stella looked pleased and saddened at once. "Ah, but I do hate to disappoint gold." She blinked at Elise. "Would you like to try gold tinsel in your hair? I wouldn''t want it to be lonely ¡ª gold, I mean."


    A stream of stuttering half-excuses left Elise, defenses so poor that Willow came to her aid. "I''m not sure it would suit Elise."


    Although Stella wore her disappointment plainly, she eventually nodded. "I don''t quite agree," she said, "but you''re the expert on all things fashionable, so you must be right."


    Of course, as soon as Willow came to the rescue, she put her damsel in distress again. "But I do think that gold shadow would look just wonderful on those eyelids of yours, Ellie ¡ª they''re like big, blank canvases."


    For the first time in her very short memory, Elise had reason to be self-conscious about her eyelids. Someone gave a rasping cough nearby, one that sounded like poor cover for a laugh. Willow''s eyes narrowed once again, this time in the direction of that cough, and she muttered about having to deal with oddities too early in the day.


    In an effort to move the topic away from makeup altogether, Elise straightened Willow''s beauty tips into a neat stack, and said, "What oddities?"


    "Marek, of course," Willow said.


    Elise followed her friend''s gaze to a rightward table, where Tarian Marek sat. He hadn''t been there when she had come to the Reading Room, and she hadn''t noticed him enter. Had he dropped by while she was sleeping, or after she and Stella had started working? Either scenario could be possible. As for oddities, there weren''t any. He had his face so far in a book that only his neatly parted hair was visible, but that hardly seemed a mark of the bizarre. "He''s studying."


    "Alone." Willow made it sound like a crime.


    "I was studying alone before Stella came along."


    Willow spared Elise a sympathetic glance, then patted the shorter girl on the shoulder. "You only think nicely of him because he''s in your Hall."


    No, Elise tried to think nicely of him despite his fickle personality, and her suspicion that he knew her more than he let on. Her efforts had proved worthwhile, for he treated her with his own brand of kindness. But his name had been on the suspect list, too, and her defense of him came out flat. "He''s an Underseer."


    "I know," Willow said, "and I still say he charmed his way into that one."


    "With what? Powers or smiles?" Elise paused at the archness in her own voice. Not fifteen seconds ago she had been wary of defending Marek, and now she leaped at the chance. Why? What had it been? The answer came with little thought. It was what Willow had said: <em class="western">You only think nicely of him because he''s in your Hall. She had made being in Hall Seven sound like a bad thing, and it had taken a moment for that fact to sink in for Elise.


    The questions did not bother Willow a bit. "Knowing him, both."


    "But I don''t know him," Elise said. "And I don''t know you, either. I don''t know any of you."


    An abashed look touched Willow''s face. She started to say something, but the words disappeared beneath a wave of memory, <em class="western">and Elise sat in the middle of the desks rather than at the front of them, not wishing to have been called a teacher''s pet for doing so. Things were bad enough with her being a freshman in several advanced classes. This particular one included upperclassman. But she didn''t need to worry about standing out in English class. Almost as soon as the teacher had finished roll call, the woman said, "Please read your selection for us, Marek. I''ve been waiting all week to hear whatever delightful poem you''ve chosen."


    <em class="western">All the students except for Elise turned towards the back of the class<em class="western">, several of them rolling their eyes the second the teacher couldn''t see them<em class="western">. <em class="western">Elise looked, too ¡ª though <em class="western">seconds late, <em class="western">she was just in time to watch<em class="western"> a boy rise from his desk in the <em class="western">back <em class="western">corner. He looked younger than the other students, though not as young as she was<em class="western">, wearing his school uniform with a neatness that escaped most of the other boys.


    <em class="western">"Pursuit," he <em class="western">said, in a clear, strong voice<em class="western">, "by H. D<em class="western">," and began to read.


    Another memory chased the heels of the first, so lucid that Elise could smell blackboard chalk.


    <em class="western">Students shuffled out into the corridor at the lunch bell. One of the junior boys bumped Elise out of the way, then snagged Marek by the jacket. A half circle of boys surrounded the two of them at once. "You think you''re so smart," the junior said, twisting Marek around to face him. "But I''ll tell you a secret." He poked a finger into Marek''s chest, hard enough to send the younger boy off balance. The junior gripped the jacket harder, popping threads on the lapel. "It doesn''t matter how many professors feel sorry for you when you''re less than worthless. And you are, Addy." He gave Marek a shake. "Got it?"


    <em class="western">Not a word left Marek''s lips.<em class="western"> He just hung there, the toes of his shoes barely touching the floor<em class="western">, and stared away like a beaten dog<em class="western">.


    <em class="western">The junior looked to his friends. "Like I said ¡ª worthless," he told them, then<em class="western"> let Marek loose into the nearest wall. They all laughed when the boy crumpled, but they hadn''t seen what Elise had. The way that Marek had kept himself from really hitting the wall, the way he had kept himself from really hitting the floor, the way he had stared after his bullies as they paraded away. Like he knew what worthless really meant, and he was looking at it.


    "¡ª and friendless as he is," Willow babbled miles away, "I''d be surprised if he didn''t end up sent to the Factory. I mean, he''s already in Hall Seven." Her eyes widened. "No offense, Elise."


    "It sounds like it''s supposed to be offensive," Elise said, "being in Hall Seven." Being where she was, she meant to say. Yet the careless insult barely mattered next to the things she had just remembered. The only oddity about Marek was how he held himself back from hurting all the people who had hurt him. A boy like that couldn''t have killed Charlotte ... couldn''t he?


    "It''s not offensive, being there, really." But Willow had spoken too quickly. "Elise, I didn''t mean it like tha ¡ª"


    A book slammed shut. The three girls weren''t the only ones in the Reading Room searching for the source of that noise. They found it at once. Marek was leaving the library so fast that his jacket fluttered. The book he had been reading sat on his table.


    Elise jammed everything she had taken out of her book bag back into it. She couldn''t let him go, not after what she had remembered about him. "He has his reasons to keep away from people, I think."


    Willow slid off the table, then placed her fists against her hips. "You wouldn''t be saying that if you had your head on straight," she said, lifting her chin high. "If you knew ¡ª well, you don''t know, you can''t, but I''m telling you now that he''s not worth it."


    Elise didn''t bother closing her bag; she dropped it onto her lap. "You''re right," she said, not looking at Willow. What she was going to say would be hurtful, but she couldn''t help it, not when it was the truth. "Like I said before, I don''t know him and I don''t know you, so that means I have about as much reason to trust you as I do him."


    <em class="western">And either one of you might be a killer.


    "It''s bad for your health, sticking up for him," Willow said, with an almost pleading note. "He''s from the wrong side of town, the wrong side of everything."


    Marek had reached the halfway point of the library. If Elise wanted to catch him, she would have to hurry. "I don''t listen to gossip," she said, and it didn''t matter if she had listened to it or not in her past life. Her new life was different. She rolled away from the table as fast as she could.


    "You should!" Willow called out after her. Someone hushed her, which she ignored. "You''ll live longer that way."


    Elise stopped only to take Marek''s abandoned book. It was just as heavy as it looked. By the time she finished wrestling it off the table, he was out of sight. She would just have to give it to him this evening, then. The tweedy young librarian at the front desk, whose name plate declared him to be Barnaby Bramson, took a long look at the cover of her book. In a voice almost as dry as the pages rustling in the Reading Room, he read, "Hm, <em class="western">Ordinary Society: A Criticism." His large black eyes stared at Elise over his thick spectacles. "This isn''t your usual fare, Miss Ellsworth."


    That sounded like disapproval. "It isn''t?" she said.


    Bramson grimaced, then nodded. "Ah, forgive me; I''d almost forgotten. Of course you''d be interested in all kinds of subjects after the accident damaged your memory." He shook his head. "Such a pity."


    Their conversation thankfully ended there; he wrote down her checkout date in the book and in a log on the desk, then bid her a polite goodbye that she echoed. Her wheelchair''s bulk prevented her from hurtling out of the library like she wanted to do.


    "Should we go to Valens Valley together?" Stella said suddenly from Elise''s left side.


    Elise''s hands almost snagged on her wheels in surprise. "Valens Valley?" she said. "Why would we go there out of the blue?"


    "Oh, for no reason." But a note of strain in Stella''s voice said otherwise.


    The motive for it soon became clear: a horribly familiar girl was approaching them. What did such a girl want from her? Elise almost kept going straight past her, but stopped instead. She would have to face her past eventually. That may as well be today. "No," she said to Stella, "I don''t think I''ll go to the Valley today."


    "I''ll buy you some candy, then."


    Elise gave her a numb thank-you for this offer, and Stella left her alone with the sister she only recognized from photographs and a single painful memory.

 Payments, Various 2

    Whatever reasons Elise had halfheartedly imagined might excuse her family for treating her as they had done now died away. Her sister Meliora Ellsworth was both frail and beautiful, like a doll too expensive to take down from a high shelf. Her pale hair hung in perfect waves, her eyes shone big and blue, and her pinkish skin rivaled porcelain in delicate clarity. There was a depth to the hollows of her eyes and cheekbones, however, as if she had recently been ill. Yet no illness could have eclipsed her flawless clothes, a sight that stabbed jealousy straight into Elise''s heart. No unraveling cuffs or worn down heels for her, no, she had a fashionably flared skirt the color of bluebells, and shoes so new that they must have still pinched her toes.


    This girl had a mother and father who cared for her. Elise had no one ¡ª she could not even count her friends or professors after finding that list of murder suspects. She pushed off towards the exit, intent on leaving Meliora behind.


    "Elise."


    That brought her up short. She circled awkwardly around in her wheelchair. Any chance of catching Marek had been lost, and she might as well face this latest obstacle before it came around to bother her again. Turning her face up ¡ª very far up, the other girl was a bit taller than most ¡ª Elise simply waited.


    "Aren''t you going to say hello?" Meliora asked.


    That was rich coming from her. Elise took several breaths to calm herself, each one coming in shakier than the last had. Fine, if she couldn''t be calm, she could be angry. She drew on the deep reservoir of that anger, letting it seep into every part of her body and mind until she felt far away from herself. It was another girl who spoke in her voice. "I would have tried to be pleasant if you had tried to see me in the clinic."


    Meliora took half a step back, as if she had been shoved. She gathered herself, somehow managing to look injured in the process. "You healed yourself, didn''t you?" she said in tone that attempted coolness and came out only bitter. "You always get out of the scrapes you get into."


    "I wouldn''t call an attempted murder a ''scrape,'' but I suppose that''s not the only way we''re different."


    Seeing Meliora flinch brought Elise joy. Shame followed. Was this how she always felt when speaking with her sister? It didn''t seem right. But the memory of Marek being shoved into a wall flashed in her mind again like a siren, reminding her of what else hadn''t been right. He had fallen, yet his face had been hard with loathing. He had changed since then. The other day at the breakfast table, he hadn''t stared down at the floor and waited for the harassment from Adesso or Romilly to end. He had parried with words and venom.


    Maybe Elise had gone against her natural inclinations to defend herself, too, when she had been younger. That would be different now. "May I ask why you''ve decided to talk with me?" Elise said.


    "Father asked me to." Meliora stuck her nose into the air. "He''s concerned about keeping up appearances."


    That remark had obviously been intended to cut, and it did. Elise cut right back. "Yes, I can see that he''s concerned about a lot of things that have nothing to do with me."


    Meliora''s mouth fell open a little, her wide eyes growing even wider. She had not expected to hear anything of the sort, which meant that the Elise of the past really had not defended herself much to this girl at all. A disappointment, but one that wouldn''t continue.


    "If you don''t have anything else to say, I have better things to do than sit here," Elise said. She waited a moment; when nothing more was said, she left at a slow pace that belied her inner turmoil. A guilty giddiness churned under her rib cage, shot through with disbelief. She had held her own without stammering or looking away.


    Elise rode that elation all the way through the double doors of the Reading Room. Someone called her name as she reached the corridor. Her hands worked fast on the wheels of her chair, and she flew away. Her name sounded again. She took a hard turn down a side corridor, then another, then another still, not stopping until the voice behind her had faded to a senseless and distant buzz. She drew to the nearest wall, placing her forehead against its cold, bare stone. The right thing, she had done the right thing.


    When her heart stopped pounding, she turned aside to examine her surroundings. This corridor had a cramped medieval look, which made a certain sort of sense. Marek had mentioned that the Manor was ancient when Lord Rambling had bought it, so it could have started out as some dreary castle. Either that, or the building had decided to change its look to something more dramatic.


    A voice pierced the quiet. Not the one from before, but a male voice. Close, only a corridor or two away. A second voice joined the first, this one clipped, angrier. Two men were having an argument.


    Alarm snaked down her back as if painted there by an icy fingertip. Nothing good came of being too curious. Just look at what happened to her after asking questions about Charlotte''s death. Extraordinaries could do anything with their powers, including punish eavesdroppers.


    The voices grew louder. Wait, was that ¡ª


    "Go to hell, Marek!"


    Romilly. Hard to forget such a superior, snarling tone after hearing it just yesterday.


    Marek replied ¡ª his gravelly voice also unmistakable ¡ª but his exact words were lost. Elise moved forward as slowly as she could manage. The argument grew clearer as she drew closer to the end of her narrow corridor. Marek and Romilly weren''t alone.


    "Don''t you have anything more worthwhile than harassing your betters?" another boy said, whose languorous voice eluded her. He could have been anyone. "There must be some professor who needs you to slobber over him."


    Laughter erupted. None of it was Marek''s. Just how many people were there? And were they standing in the large corridor crossing hers, or one next to it?


    "Sorry, Santiago," Marek said, "but I''d hate to take over your favorite pastime."


    No one laughed now.


    "You ¡ª" Santiago began.


    "Don''t," Romilly said.


    Elise reached what had looked like an alcove at a distance. It was a gap in the wall between this corridor and the next, one disguised by a tattered tapestry that hung straight down from the ceiling. The moth holes in it afforded her a good view of things next door. Two girls and four boys, Hall Sevens all, stood in a circle around Marek and Romilly. Adesso was one of them, doing her best impression of a harlot ¡ª where could anyone buy skirts that short? And her blouse, God, she was nearly spilling out of it. As for the other spectators, they had no names to their faces. A few of them looked amused, but most had expressions that ranged from distaste to fury.


    Marek had his hands in the pockets of his tan slacks; paired with his wild purple and maroon checked sport coat, it looked as if he were playing host at an impromptu lunch party. "Now that I have your undivided attention," he said, "I''ll repeat myself again for those who don''t listen." He leveled his slouching shoulders, straightened his back. "This isn''t a debate. An Underseer should know better than to let his girl flout the rules, Romilly." He barely turned his head in Adesso''s direction. Lamplight shivered on his glasses. "And you. Cover up at least until you get outside the Manor. Besides dress codes, we also have ones for health and morals."


    Romilly lunged for Marek, fist raised. Ice erupted from his hand. He stopped inches from plunging an icicle into Marek. His nostrils flared like a bull''s. "I could end you." He jabbed his hand forward, jamming the icicle against Marek''s throat. "This is what you''re worth ¡ª as little effort as possible."


    Crude insults were no excuse for threatening a life. This was bad. Elise had to find someone. A professor ¡ª no, Gerver, he was Chief of Security. But even if she could remember where Gerver''s office was, he might not be there. And it was too far away.


    What could she do? God, what could she possibly do?


    Something. Whatever it was, it didn''t matter. She pressed further into the dusty tapestry. Muscles tensed in her arm, preparing to hurl her chair into the other corridor.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Then Marek took a step, driving the ice deeper into his skin. The grin that cracked his face was bright and wide. Too wide. "Do it," he said, taking off his glasses. He tucked them into the breast pocket of his sport coat. "Go on."


    Romilly''s hand wavered. He didn''t drop it, though. "You''re insane."


    "Me? I''m <em class="western">compos mentis." Marek took another step, and so did Romilly. "You? You''re nuts." He gestured at everyone. "I mean, all your friends are standing around as you threaten my precious life." He cocked his head. "Well, I suppose Santiago isn''t your friend, or Perkins either" ¡ª the dreaded <em class="western">ee-ther again ¡ª "but the point stands. You want to kill me with an audience watching, and that''s not the sort of thing that a sane man does."


    "Shut up."


    "Open my throat and I will." Marek lowered his arm. He took another step, which Romilly once more matched. "But what''s keeping you from it?"


    Step for step.


    "Could it be that you''re wondering what might happen if you fail?"


    Step for step.


    "Or what will happen if you succeed?"


    Step for step.


    "Or are you just afraid it won''t work?"


    A final step. The ice pressed so deeply into his neck that it looked like he had a hole in it. He showed none of the pain he must have felt, but Romilly''s hand had never stopped shaking. "Even if you do kill me," Marek said, "you won''t shake off my murder that easy."


    Romilly lowered his hand, and the ice shattered. It hit the floor with a glassy crash. "If I kill you, I''ll do it so I don''t stain any floors with Addy blood."


    Now Marek gave a thin, brief smile not at all like the grin he had worn. No warmth or mockery of it, only the flashing snarl a wolf gave before snapping at another one. "How considerate," he said. "One demerit for attacking the Lead Underseer ... as expected."


    Rage mottled Romilly''s handsome face. He sputtered, "You ¡ª you ¡ª"


    "I ¡ª I ¡ª I certainly hope you''ll learn from this mistake, unlike all your others." Marek''s other hand left his remaining pocket, heading straight for his throat. He rubbed the spot where the icicle had jabbed him. "But sadly, I think the best part of you ran down your mother''s thighs."


    Romilly''s arm lashed up. Ice erupted from his hand again.


    Marek batted it into crystalline dust with the back of a hand. He took off his coat, then tossed it aside in the arms of a nearby statue. "Is that the best you have?" he said mildly, rolling up his shirt sleeves.


    "I don''t need to use my best," Romilly said. He, too, took off his jacket, and pitched it onto the floor. With that cast aside, it was easy to see how much bigger than Marek he was. Not just taller, but wider. He looked as if he could pick Marek up and break him in half with one hand.


    "That''s not fair." Marek flicked his tie over his shoulder. "You''re taking my lines."


    Romilly undid his tie, then yanked it over his head. It dropped to the floor like a snake. "You''re all talk."


    "That''s not what Mrs. Romilly tells me."


    As insults went, it wasn''t original, but hate darkened Romilly''s face all the same. He no longer looked handsome. "Mention my mother again, and you''ll regret it."


    Marek''s eyes shone as if someone had given him a long awaited Christmas present. "Do you know she has a birthmark?" he said, his voice soft and slow. "It''s about as big as my thumb and sits right above her big, round ¡ª"


    Ice flew at his head. He darted aside, laughing with surprise and delight.


    Two of the bigger Hall Seven boys started forward, but the two others motioned for them to stay back. Adesso and her friend stood by with smug expressions. None of them were going to stop this. No, none of them <em class="western">wanted to stop this. Elise couldn''t, not on her own. Her power could only help her, not anyone else. Worse, it didn''t keep her from getting injured. She was next to useless. All she could do was watch.


    Romilly broke forward, shooting icicles from a hazy mist swirling around the palms of both his hands.


    Marek slapped the ice aside. Loose hair fell across his forehead, the only sign of his exertion. "I don''t know why you''re so upset," he said. "It''s obvious by Mommy''s eagerness that Daddy isn''t doing a good job of things in the Romilly household, and I''m a man of charity."


    The bait worked. Romilly lunged at Marek. His icicles degenerated into jagged chunks of ice. He lobbed them hard and fast. Marek destroyed them just as quickly. Exploded ice swirled in the air like snow. The circle of students scurried back from the fight, most of them brushing flakes from their clothes.


    "Kill him!" Adesso shrieked. "Let him have it, Calix. Just murder him."


    He tried. Handful after handful of ice streaked out of his hands.


    Marek punched them into white dust. The snowstorm soon swallowed him whole. Romilly grinned, then started throwing even harder. Ice pelted the place where Marek had last stood. Powdered ice ceased thickening the air, as if Marek had given up the fight. Or been knocked out of it. Elise leaned so far forward in her wheelchair that another inch would mean standing. She pulled the tapestry aside for a better look. Had Marek finally gone down?


    That must have been Romilly''s thought, too, because he stopped throwing. He squinted into the settling snowfall.


    A wall of ice surged out of the cloud, with Marek behind it. Fresh ice pelted the shield. The surface cracked. It wouldn''t last, it just wouldn''t, not before Marek got to Romilly. Another chunk of ice crashed straight through the shield. Marek didn''t blink when it sailed inches from his nose. He stopped charging, but the ice shield didn''t. One shove of his shoulder shattered it into big pieces. They burst in one direction.


    Romilly scrambled aside, but it was too late. A shard hit him slammed into his gut so hard that his shoes left the floor. He just managed to regain his balance when he landed.


    Falling might have saved him from what came next. Marek dashed forward. His leg swung out and up, straight into Romilly''s groin. The hissing inhales from the male spectators almost drowned out Adesso''s strangled shriek. Marek watched the larger boy crash down with satisfaction.


    "Y-you''re a cheat," Romilly croaked. He fought to pull himself away from Marek, inching along the floor like a worm. "A damned cheat ... with dirty Ord tricks."


    Marek plucked a sharp splinter of ice from the floor. He twisted it this way and that, as if he had never before encountered such a thing. "I''m not a cheat," he said, dropping down to his haunches. "I just know one important thing: might or mind, power is all the same." He thrust the lethal splinter under Romilly''s chin, pressing ice to throat. "It separates the weak from the strong."


    Romilly had stilled so much that he had to be holding his breath.


    "Scared?" Marek said. "Because if you aren''t, well ..."


    <em class="western">"¡ª you should be," Romilly said.<em class="western"> "I could kill you right here, and no one would care."


    <em class="western">His friends stood by, watching.<em class="western"> So did other students, a mix of sophomores and freshmen, with some upperclassmen thrown in. Elise had been caught in the rush of them, unable to free herself when Calix Romilly and his friends had started attacking another boy. The same boy who had read that lovely poem earlier in the day.


    <em class="western">Marek looked defiant even bloody and beaten. "I''m not scared," he said, blood dribbl<em class="western">ed<em class="western"> from his split lip. <em class="western">He swayed where he stood, clutching one arm that hung at a funny angle. <em class="western">"But you are.<em class="western">" He stepped forward, his shoes crunching down on his already broken eyeglasses. "That''s why you hit me when my back was turned ¡ª but I guess cowards can''t help what they are.<em class="western">"


    <em class="western">Laughs pattered through the crowd. <em class="western">Romilly kicked <em class="western">out<em class="western">. His strike landed on the outside of Marek''s knee<em class="western">, and t<em class="western">he shorter boy tumbled down<em class="western">, hitting the floor with a great whoosh of air escaping him.


    <em class="western">Next to Elise, a girl wearing about a gallon of sickly floral perfume gave a cry and started forward. A boy that shared her dark blue eyes grabbed her by the arm, shaking his head. "Don''t, Rosie," he said. "You can''t get any more demerits, not for someone else''s fight."


    <em class="western">Light red hair fell into Rosie''s face as she lowered her head, sniffling. Still, the girl had been brave to try. That was more than Elise could say for herself. She couldn''t do anything except tremble and watch what happened next. That made her as much of a coward as Romilly was.


    <em class="western">Crouching down, Romilly made a show of twirling the icicle he held in his hand. <em class="western">"<em class="western">Getting into high level classes doesn''t change what you are," he said. "You seem to have forgotten it, so let me remind you." He jabbed the ice at Marek''s throat. "You''re weak, and I''m strong." He pressed the ice farther down. "That is what happens when one of us is Addy trash and the other is a real Extraordinary."


    <em class="western">Marek coughed, spraying blood. <em class="western">Romilly <em class="western">started back with disgust, dropping the icicle<em class="western">. It shattered on the floor <em class="western">close to Marek''s head<em class="western">.<em class="western"> Romilly laughed at the other boy''s flinch, then got up to join his friends. They weaved through the dispersing mob. Like the upperclassmen earlier in the day, he didn''t look back to see the hatred seething in Marek''s eyes.


    <em class="western">Elise saw it, though, and shivered.


    "Ah, you are afraid," Marek said, snapping her attention to the present. He pressed the shard against Romilly''s throat, just as the same had been done to him. "I don''t blame you. I''d be scared, too, knowing some worthless Addy was wondering if ice could punch through my flesh like a knife."


    The other students started forward, but stopped when he stood. He released the shard of ice. It landed right next to Romilly''s face, bursting into a hundred white pebbles. Romilly flinched, but Marek didn''t laugh.


    Done, Marek went to the statue, retrieving his lurid sport coat. He started putting himself in order. Running a hand through his hair, he added one more thing. "It''s three demerits, now," he said. "I''ll tell your mother that tonight."


    Romilly raised a hand, one steaming with the beginnings of another icicle. Two of his friends stepped between him and Marek, saying enough was enough. The fight finished just like that.


    Elise leaned back into her wheelchair, no longer needing to see more. Relief and anger and fear stormed inside her so strongly that her stomach ached with it. Marek had won against a coward and a bully, but he had also proved himself perfectly capable of harming another person. This might have not been the only time, either. Her former self must have had a good reason to make him a suspect in Charlotte''s death.


    "Ellsworth?"


    She jerked, eyes widening. No, this couldn''t be happening. But it was, because the footfalls nearing her proved that. She lifted her head so she could meet the unnatural gaze of Tarian Marek.

 Payments, Various 3

    If Gerver''s classes had included lessons on lying to potential murderers, now would have been the time for Elise to remember his instructions. Nothing came to mind. She couldn''t lie. But she couldn''t tell the truth, not when Marek had spoken to her with blood on his teeth.


    He spared her saying anything for a moment. His gaze traveled to the tapestry she still clutched in a hand. "It must have frightened you," he said, "seeing that."


    Frightened her? No, the word <em class="western">fright no longer applied when her heartbeat rattled her insides, when it jangled down into the tips of her fingers. What pumped through her veins was beyond mere fear, a pounding terror that snapped up lesser emotions and instincts with sharp fangs. There was no sense in trying to flee the end when it had already come upon you. A strange clarity folded around her, as serene and cold as the grave. If Marek wished to do her harm, then nothing she did mattered. She could tell him anything at all. "Yes," she said, letting go of the tapestry, "it was frightening seeing Adesso violate the health codes like that."


    Marek blinked in surprise. Then his face molded into its usual mask of bland pleasantness. "Looks like your sense of humor is intact." He glanced over his shoulder. "That said, you should get going. I have a feeling that somebody might be in a lousy mood, and it ain''t me."


    Without anything further, he blew past her like he had better things to do.


    Was he really going to leave her behind with all those crazy people in the next corridor? Maybe he wasn''t as great a danger to her as she had thought. Well, unlike Adesso, he had yet to prove himself as her enemy despite his name being on the suspect list. "W-wait!" she said.


    If he heard her, he didn''t heed her.


    She swiveled around, then went after him. "Marek, wait."


    Slowing, but not stopping, he said, "Yes, how may I help you, Ellsworth?" His tone was polite, almost disturbingly so. How could he sound that way after what had happened to him? Couldn''t he show anything? Two faces or not, he was human.


    Elise caught up with him. "You''re bleeding." She lifted a hand from a wheel long enough to point, but momentum kept her alongside him. "There and there."


    He touched a cut high on his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. "So I am," he said, looking at the blood on his fingertips. "Imagine that. Romilly is slightly less pathetic than he looks." He dragged a handkerchief from the inside of his sport coat so he could dab his face. "Thanks for your concern, but I have places to be."


    "Wait, let me give you something." Getting the necklace from beneath the top of her dress required her to use both hands, so she stopped her wheelchair.


    A few feet away, he halted in place. He sighed as he turned around to face her. "I really don''t have t ¡ª"


    She removed the vial from her pendant, then thrust it at him. "Here, you should use th-this." She swallowed, trying to ease the stupid stutter that had come into her voice. "On your cuts."


    Frowning, he took the vial. Inspected it. "Kyurall? You''re giving me kyurall?"


    "What?"


    "Kyurall ¡ª it eases pain and heals injuries." He was in her face so swiftly that she jolted back. "Why did you give this to me?"


    "Because you''ve been hurt," she said. Wasn''t that obvious?


    He straightened up, turning the vial between his fingers; the silvery liquid churned against its glass. "You have no idea what this is, but you handed it over to me without thinking twice <em class="western">because I''m hur<em class="western">t."


    Had she done something wrong? She must have. But what was wrong about wanting to help someone? Did he think that she was trying to poison him? "It''s safe. I''ve tried it. Like you said, it eases pain. I don''t know about wounds, though; it doesn''t seem to do very much for mine."


    "Most people would question where you got this."


    Back to rudeness again, were they? "I didn''t steal it if that''s what you''re thinking. I have more, a lot more."


    He struggled with his expression for a moment, before wrangling it into blankness. "You shouldn''t flash this around to just anyone."


    "I don''t think you''re ''just anyone,'' and neither do you."


    He stared at her, one of those terrible, unnerving stares he seemed to like giving. It went on and on until she twiddled her pendant around just to have something else to occupy her mind with. "You''re right," he said, finally turning his gaze elsewhere. "But you oughta know something ..." He twisted the vial up, looking at it under one of the gaslights on the wall above. "This isn''t the kind of bottle it comes in at the drugstore. People will wonder why."


    "That''s because it isn''t from the drugstore." Now he did not look at her at all, and that seemed worse than staring. "I made it."


    His hand drew down from the light. "You made it," he said. Not making a question of the words, only putting them together as if this was the first time he had heard them. "Christ, you don''t even know what you''re saying. It''s a restricted substance, and you <em class="western">made it."


    Restricted? Her diary hadn''t mentioned that, nor had her recipe notebook.


    "You didn''t know." He shook his head. "Of course you didn''t know. You''ve only forgotten everything that matters." He uncorked the vial, then wet a fingertip with the kyurall. "I''ll let you know a few tips." He spread some of the liquid across the cut on his cheek; the wound stopped bleeding. "First, if you don''t want people asking inconvenient questions, don''t let them know that you have kyurall." Now he treated the corner of his mouth. "Second, don''t tell them that you make it, because they''ll want to know how you, a college student, got the ingredients for it." He tilted his head back so he could take a drop on the tongue. When he straightened up, he finished, "Third, someone broke into one of the Valley''s supply depots a couple years back. Whoever it was got away with a lot of things, including the stuff that goes into kyurall."Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    A protest rose within her, one that she quashed. He was right to say that she had forgotten everything that mattered. She might have even forgotten burglarizing a supply depot. It was absurd, not impossible.


    "You''re not capable of it, of course," he said, "but other people might not believe that."


    "You sound sure that I''m incapable." She tilted her head up to him. "Almost as if you know it."


    He corked the vial, then thrust it back at her. "You don''t know me."


    "Keep it."


    "No." Why was he refusing it? Because it was valuable? Or because it seemed a form of pity from her again? "What I really want is knowledge. You said you made it, so you must at least have access to a formula."


    "Teach you? But you''re ... you''re ..." The memory of him reading a poem in a long-ago high school class reoccurred to her. The teacher had obviously found him a good student. But Elise had barely got any studying done today. How could she compare?


    His expression darkened. "I see."


    "You don''t," she said. "It''s not about you. It''s me. How can I teach you anything? You''re an Underseer, and that''s special, isn''t it? You''re special. I''m just ..." She shook her head. "I don''t know what I am."


    He relaxed the slightest bit, though he still looked chary. "It''s best to learn a thing like this from someone with experience in making it," he explained. "Not only that, but the ingredients are hard to come by. That''s another way of saying they''re expensive. But you obvious have access to them." Explanation suited him, allowing him to relax further. "This is the part where you ask me what you get in return."


    "I don''t need anything."


    Instead of being pleased, he looked mystified. "You''re an Ellsworth ¡ª no, not just that, you''re human. And humans always have a price. Name yours."


    "I don''t have one."


    Amusement seeped into his face. "Really?" he said. "Is there nothing you need?" His voice deepened, its lowness curving around her. "Is there nothing you want?" He leaned toward her. "Nothing that you crave in all the world?"


    The heat of her face slithered down to her neck and chest. She ducked her head. No one spoke to her like he did, no one got so close and then stayed there, no one was half so ... so ... <em class="western">invasive.


    Yet he was not wrong. There was one thing she needed, wanted, craved.


    "The <em class="western">Rambling Herald," she said.


    Disappointment replaced his amusement as if he had been rapped across the knuckles by a ruler. "If you want a copy, I have to point out that you''re part of its staff."


    "Work with me." Something about that sounded strange, so she rephrased. "With us. All of us."


    He seemed on the verge of laughter, and not a happy kind. "Out of all the ¡ª that''s your price?"


    "We''re short. The <em class="western">Herald, I mean, short after ... after ..." Her next words stuck in her chest.


    "Cooke."


    She nodded.


    He began pacing. His white hands twitched and tapped with the same thoughts that altered his face, but not once did he lose his grip on the vial of kyurall. "It''s a large price to pay," he said, slowing to a stop. "A large price. I don''t have a lotta free time."


    Her courage didn''t amount to much, but she did have some. She had to use it. Between her efforts to figure out who killed Charlotte and to keep herself afloat at this college, she would barely be able to keep up with the paper. More help was needed with the articles and the editing. "Kyurall has a large price, too."


    "Ellsworths shouldn''t be concerned about money."


    "My family doesn''t seem to be concerned about it." Unlike her.


    A considerable silence elapsed. Perhaps he was thinking about shabby cuffs and worn shoes, the same as she was. Not very far away, an enormous bell began ringing the hour.


    "Fine. My time for your time, then." He brushed a hand through his hair again, which was still out of place despite his earlier efforts to fix it. "When should I go to your headquarters?"


    "Um, seven, I think." That would be after dinner, but not too close to curfew. "Tonight or tomorrow, if that''s all right."


    He did not need long to think about it. "Tonight would be better," he said. "We''ll have to start on the kyurall after the meeting, of course."


    Spending part of the evening with a roomful of potential murders would be scary enough. The idea of going off alone with one of them set her heart racing a second time. But that wasn''t anything she hadn''t done before, was it? If one of <em class="western">Herald staff was a killer, he or she seemed in no hurry to harm Elise. The same went for Marek. Perhaps her "amnesia" had assured the murderer that she was no longer a threat.


    Even so, just because she was difficult to kill didn''t mean someone wouldn''t try it again ... and it didn''t mean it wouldn''t hurt. She would have to keep her returning memories a secret, then, to keep herself safe. At the most, she would tell anyone who listened that she had regained a thing here or a thing there, but nothing important. Tell them that it was as if most memories about Charlotte had been wiped away by the accident. That would be the safest thing, and it would mean that she could still investigate the suspects on her list.


    Decision made, there was still an obstacle. "The meeting will run at least an hour," she said. "Won''t curfew get in the way?" She had no idea how long kyurall took to make, but the directions had seemed complicated.


    "It will, but it''s a lucky thing that I''m an Underseer." He paused to assess her. "But if you''re objecting to the hour or the company, that''s fine. I understand."


    "No, it''s not that ..."


    Just what was she going to say? That she didn''t want to be alone with him? That would make him wonder why, and he couldn''t do that if he was Charlotte''s killer. But he wasn''t the only name on her list, and he had been something of an ally to Elise. After all the things that she had witnessed and remembered about him, his prickly behavior was understandable.


    And there was a chance that she couldn''t be murdered, that she couldn''t die. Her insides quivered with terror and exhilaration at the thought. Not dying was the province of gods or monsters. If she had that power, what did that make her?


    Safe, for one thing. Safe to ask questions and get answers. She couldn''t take any risks until she knew for certain how far her ability to heal went, but the possibility eased the fear that had knotted itself between her lungs.


    "You okay there, Ellsworth?" Marek said, making her remember exactly where she was and who she was with.


    She nodded. "Yes," she said. "And I don''t object to the hour or the company."


    Did that sound as much a lie to him as it did to her?


    "Glad to hear it." He looked as if he had never been glad of anything in his life, so maybe he had caught the lie. He set the vial on a stone ledge protruding from the wall nearby her, and pretended not to notice her twitch away from his nearness. "Tonight, then."


    He left. She took the vial, which was still warm from his hand. What in the world had she just agreed to do? She would be teaching a boy of questionable motives a questionable form of medicine in the dark of the night. Her gaze found his retreating back, the book bag that thumped against his hip ¡ª speaking of books! She looked down at the one she still had on her lap, the one that sent her after him in the first place.


    * * *


    Only in her room inside Persephone Dorm did another thought stall her.


    "Where am I going to teach him to make this thing, anyway?" she asked the ceiling. But as soon as she said it, an answer came. She slipped out of her wheelchair, so she could get the red valise from under her bed. Opened the secret compartment. Grabbed the map sitting in with the vials and the ingredients. Could this be what she needed?


    It might be, so she left her room again.


    Twenty minutes later, she had found her way onto the third floor and through a labyrinth of old, cramped rooms that dizzied the head with their unfailing sameness. But the one indicated on the end of her map had a silver spiderweb on its door and no lock. The spider''s kitchen. She splayed her hand on the wood. Hinges creaked as the door opened gently inward. The long, thin room behind it was unimpressive, dusty, and colorless even with daylight filtering through its grubby rose window.


    But then she rolled inside, and saw what kind of things it held. Yes, it was exactly what she needed.

 Payments, Various 4

    Distractions killed, and one of the biggest distractions had fallen out of the sky this September. Like a bird with a broken wing found when strolling through a park one morning, its bright little beak flashing yellow in the deep, dewy grass, every chirp a needle in your heart. Then there you were scooping it up with your bare hands because it needed you, and because you knew what kind of man it would make you for walking by.


    Not a good man, that much was true. Picking it up didn''t make you good, though. You had gone long past that. Maybe you once shot at blue jays with a little air rifle your Pops bought you on account of them being pests; or maybe after your ninth birthday you crushed a nest of tiny blue eggs when you scampered up into a tree after your old man ¡ª the same old man who let you take potshots at pests in the victory garden ¡ª had given you a bloody lip for looking at him funny; and maybe it wasn''t any of those things that made you less than good, but had actually been the way you felt about those things. How it had felt to have that little bit of power, your only bit of power, over lives that weren''t yours.


    Now you were older and wiser and had real power. You could save something instead of ruin it. Saving felt good, as if by rescuing some little thing you were cupping a sliver of your own soul between your palms.


    Destruction was easy. Destruction was simple. Destruction needed growing targets for vanishing returns.


    But salvation?


    Salvation was hard. Salvation was complicated. Salvation could be found in something as small as a sparrow ... or a girl.


    He had picked her up without thinking, that girl. Had helped her many times after, too many times. With birds, you mended their wings and let them go. That was how it went with wild things. They pined forever for the outside world, and then they died for lack of it.


    This bird, though, he wanted to keep her. Put her in a golden cage where she could safely, sweetly sing.


    So that qualified her as a distraction, and Tarian Marek didn''t do distractions. He definitely didn''t do them on a Sunday when he had other things on the docket. Yet here he was leaving the Manor half an hour late ¡ª later if he missed the eleven o''clock into the Valley.


    He jogged down the rise to the University''s station, catching his ride just as it started for town. Lunchtime on a Sunday meant a lot of other students packed the streetcar, leaving him to hang half out of the rear doorway. Fine by him. Smart fellas never strayed far from the exits anywhere they went. Know your ins and outs, as Pops had always said, one of the few bits of worthy advice that miserable souse had given in his life.


    Marek hung on till the streetcar reached the last quarter of Main Street, the hopped off in front of Paleophone Record Store. He breezed through the door to an expected greeting:


    "You''re late."


    It didn''t matter if you were late by a second or a day, Clancy Nakamura would remind you of it like you''d broken one of the Ten Commandments. Aw, no, not a Commandment ¡ª he broke plenty of those himself. More like if you''d broken a record, that was it.


    "With good reason," Marek said. "I ran into trouble."


    Clancy looked up from the jazz records by the far wall. He wasn''t the only one to stop working; June had paused between rock and roll records, while Gaius had turned aside from his row of composers and classics. Like a few other businesses in the Valley, it opened after noon on Sundays, and that meant a lot of organizing after the madhouse of Saturday. Clancy''s parents left that up to their son since they were the churchgoing types, and Clancy got by with help from pals who also happened to be employees.


    "What kind of trouble?" Clancy said, staring hard over the top of his eyeglasses.


    Shrugging out of his sport coat, Marek answered. "The kind I could handle."


    Gaius and Clancy exchanged uneasy looks at that, but didn''t question him. June was another story, as always. She blurred across the room with her empowered speed, and stared him right in the face. "Trouble looks like it fought back," she said, squinting at his cheek and then his mouth.


    The injuries from the fight with Romilly had been minimized thanks to Ellsworth''s kyurall, but the cuts had turned to scabs, and the bruises under his clothes that Marek could feel but not see had probably faded to an ugly yellow-green. His own fault, really. He shouldn''t have been playing around. Building that ice wall had meant leaving himself open to attack. It had worked out in the end, though. Had been fun, too. The look on Romilly''s face when he got kicked! That memory would warm Marek''s heart for a long, long time. Not as long as the memory of Ellsworth giving over that vial, but ¡ª


    Shame on him for letting that distraction creep back in. She was a tricky one, that elder Ellsworth girl. It was those wounded eyes, like she had been born knowing what kind of world waited for her.


    "Maybe trouble even hit you upside the head boss," June mused, going on tiptoes to examine at him. "You look kinda dizzy."


    He stepped back. June was cute if you liked ''em crazy, but he had seen what her brand of puppy love had done to more than one gal. If she ever decided to like fellas, he would start sleeping with a knife in his hand instead of just under his pillow. "I think you''re confused, June-bug," he said. "I''m not the boss of this joint."


    She got the hint at once, playing Our Lady of Contriteness sinking back onto her heels. "Whoops," she said, "slip of the tongue."


    His tone was downright avuncular as he said, "Slip too many times with that thing, and someone might be liable to cut it out of your head."


    June stuck said tongue out at him, then streaked like a bullet back to her messy records.


    There had been no weight to his words, and she seemed to have picked up on that. Had he really become that easy to read? That wouldn''t do, that wouldn''t do at all. He would fix up a nice surprise for the gang, one that would be all the more surprising because they hadn''t got one in a while. Not today, but soon.


    He draped his coat over his arm. "I''m going to the stockroom," he said. "It needs a good going-over by now." Loosening his tie, he added, "Care to help me, Gaius?"


    "I don''t see why not," Gaius replied. He always used those exact words whenever anyone mentioned going to the stockroom, because he really <em class="western">couldn''t see why not. Handling entries and exits from that particular place was part of his job, and he had the same amount of pride in his work as the rest of them did. They all had special tasks for their special qualities.


    Marek strolled off first, digging a pack of gum out of his coat. He chewed fast, barely tasting the heat of the clove flavor, and shoved the pack into a pocket of his slacks. Through the back of the store was the office to the right, and the stockroom to the left. It didn''t look like much, just a big room full of shelves and boxes, all of them lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Had to use flashlights if you actually wanted to check the inventory.


    This stockroom had one thing that most of its kind didn''t. Straight to the right at the far corner stood a very important trio of shelves. The vital one was on the bottom, where it covered a lever that led into the wall. Marek leaned down, found that lever, and slammed it so hard against the concrete floor that the metal of it groaned. The wall slid back a couple of feet; he pushed it farther in with only two fingers, then slid it to the right.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    The tunnel behind it looked as dank and uninviting as ever. But the mold looked friendlier than the over-sized artist''s mannequin did. He would never admit that thing gave him the creeps, but he didn''t need to ¡ª whenever Marek got near that jumped-up old log, Gaius got a mean glint in his eyes. Someone had the poor idea to set the dummy into an Adirondack chair instead of on the floor where garbage belonged. June would be the winner''s bet. Marek tossed his sport coat onto a nearby shelf full of odds and ends. He''d have to take it off anyway once he set to work, and it wasn''t like anyone would rifle through his pockets. His people knew better than that.


    Gaius strode into the stockroom. When he reached the tunnel, he held out the hand he had covered in a rubber glove somewhere between the front of the store and the stockroom. "Battery."


    Marek took the gum out of his mouth, then handed it over like a nurse passing a scalpel to a surgeon. In a way, that was true. Gaius''s power worked best under a precise set of circumstances. The "battery," as he called it, needed to be imbued with juice from a subject. Saliva, blood, what have you. He wore gloves to limit contamination of both himself and his work, making sure that the replica resembled the original as closely as possible. The mannequin had articulated limbs held together by metal joints, and it was life-sized. Both those things would let the replica pass for the real deal. Being made of wood, it wasn''t fireproof, but neither were most people, so it all evened out.


    Opening the drawer that had been built in the mannequin''s chest, Gaius spoke. "That trouble you could handle" ¡ª he dropped the ball of gum into the drawer ¡ª "was it trouble you''d planned for?"


    Damn it, Marek really <em class="western">was becoming that easy to read. No, he hadn''t planned on needling Romilly into a fight, but he couldn''t resist once the opportunity had come strolling along in bad makeup. Romilly had let himself fall into the trap so easily, too. Insulting the women in his life made him drag that tarnished honor of his, the fool. "Plan for the unplanned," Marek said. "Didn''t someone famous say that once?"


    Gaius slid the drawer shut. "You know what happens when you improvise, Tarian."


    Tarian, Christ save him. Marek might as well been back in the West End listening to his parents have a wall-shaker of a donnybrook. With those, it had always been a matter of time before one of them declared him as the root of all their evils ¡ª sometimes Ma in that sharp-tongued tone of hers, the Welsh-Irish mutt who had given her cherished boy a name that promised schoolyard beatings; other times Pops called out his son''s name like a curse.


    "I fully expect the consequences of my delinquency to rain down on me, Mother dear," Marek said, which proved to be the wrong thing to say when Gaius frowned.


    "What did you do?"


    Might as well admit the truth. You had to be honest when it came to your buddies, at least some of the time. They''d catch on to your lies if every other word was one. "Oh, nothing much." Marek took another piece of gum from his pocket. He snapped it right up between his teeth, relishing the flavor. "Just instigated a war."


    And what a glorious war it promised to be. Not only had he insulted Abriana Adesso two days in a week, he had got one over on one of his oldest enemies.


    "With?" Gaius shook his head. "No, never mind. I can guess."


    "Can you?"


    "You''re only that elated when you ruin Calix Romilly''s day."


    Marek shrugged. He couldn''t deny it, even if it meant he was still an open book to his friends.


    After a very long and very disapproving look, Gaius pressed his bare left hand to the mannequin''s forehead. The wooden frame rippled, changing color and texture until it looked like a mass of boiling flesh. Hard contours gained soft edges as the skin solidified. Fine details emerged from the blank face, all the bits and pieces a person could be expected to have. Clothes and hair and eyelashes sprouted from the pale pink flesh. The last touch was the eyeglasses. From top to bottom, the mannequin had become a perfect copy of Marek. And still the thing gave him the creeps.


    The second it started moving, he beat feet into the tunnel. He paused, though, without looking back. If he had, he would have probably seen that mannequin stagger to its feet. "Anything you need from the other side?" Marek said.


    Gaius didn''t hesitate. "No."


    "Succinct as ever, my friend." Marek gave him a wave, then pressed farther into the darkness.


    The tunnel quickly swallowed up the light of the stockroom. He didn''t need to see the way. The smooth downward slope of the floor offered no obstacle. He could trail his fingers along one of the rough walls to keep track of where he was until the lights came on. They soon at his presence in clusters along the ceiling. He had snapped a few off once, trying to figure out what they were. After a few nights of research in the University''s Reading Room, he learned that they were a hybrid of mushrooms and stone. Old Lord Rambling had made them ¡ª the books didn''t say how, of course ¡ª but once ground up, they made the fuel that lit the fireflies and the gaslights.


    The rum-runners who had dug out this tunnel had been smart enough to use those petraphos to light their way. Not a pain in the neck like electricity. Running wires in would have invited too many questions back when Prohibition was in full swing.


    After several hundred feet, the tunnel ended in a stony wall. That was all anyone would see without the right key, and he had that around his neck. Getting it had been a job and a half, but worth every bead of blood and sweat spent. Some of it had even been his. He took a chain from beneath the collar of his shirt, a length of gold with a sliver of stone hanging from the very end. He took this sliver and pressed it to a divot in the wall. A door formed out of the stone. At the top was a Judas window behind a grille. He twisted the handle, pushing his way inside.


    It would have been impressive for a speakeasy back in the day. When Valens Valley had been a mining boom town, a local hotel owner had done well enough to build another such establishment. This one had been made out of brick. A flood in the last century had made things go from boom to bust, but the guy still had this palace made. The idiot called it quits after a second flood; other townsfolk hadn''t. They rebuilt a few years later smack on top of the ruins thanks to Lord Rambling. The guys who tunneled their way into the lobby had burnished it into a glory it probably never had in the last century. The wallpaper was peeling off the bricks now and the wood at the bottom half of the walls had lost some of its shine, but it still worked as a club house when Marek and the rest of the gang needed it to. There was even booze at the bar. These days it played double duty as a storage room for the kind of stuff that outsiders couldn''t see.


    He had taken enough chances in his fight with Romilly and the ensuing conversation with Ellsworth, so he took none now. Once he closed the door, he stuck the sliver of stone into another divot on the inside. Although nothing changed where he was standing, anyone who came down the tunnel would see a stone wall there again.


    On the far end of the lobby, crowded against the boarded-up stairwell and safely stowed behind a metal fence that he and the rest of the gang had installed, were the many things they had hidden here. He opened the combination lock, then swung the gate so he could step inside. Metal shelves had been lugged here, too, so everything could be placed into neat rows. He cut through them without thinking of which way to turn, because the path was imprinted on his soul. He came to a shelf, her shelf, in the far corner, filled with all the things a girl could need when crafting kyurall. Bone meal, dried blood, and tears of laughter were the least disgusting ones, but any of them would bring in a small fortune ¡ª except for one thing. That had value only to him.


    It sat on the very top shelf by itself, in a locked box. He pulled it down, not even blinking when the lock bit into his forefinger. It clicked open once it examined his blood. Inside the plain, old box was a plain, old vial exactly like the one that Ellsworth had been carrying around in her necklace. <em class="western">Exactly, because she had given him this one, too. She''d forgotten that, just like she had forgotten other things.


    He brushed a finger against the glass, as he had done so many years ago during <em class="western">lunch break at school. Someone had put something in his book bag. When he had gone to the nurse''s office, maybe. Slipped it in while he was being treated for his beating. He opened the bag a little wider, then stared. Silver liquid. That looked like kyurall.<em class="western"> But who would give him that? He took it out and the thing beneath it, which proved to be a note, one that only said, "Please use this ¡ª it will help."


    The kyurall had helped him better than she could have guessed. Helped him so much that he had decided to help her when he heard her old man telling her off for losing another precious vial. Hadn''t even waited till they were home. No, he harangued her about it on the grounds of the high school right in front of God and everybody and Marek. Marek, who''d been watching from one of the classrooms directly behind them, shielded by Venetian blinds.


    What had that bastard said to her?


    <em class="western">"<em class="western">Keeping you under my roof is charity itself, and yet you still ruin the other gifts you''re given."


    Yeah, that''d been it. Said those words to her as if he''d said them a million times before ¡ª and who knows, maybe he had. Then Daddy dearest had stalked off, muttering about limiting her supply of tive components. She had bowed her head at those words, but she hadn''t cried. It was clear then what kind of house she lived it. Marek had lived in one not much different before he had come to the Valley.


    For that girl, robbing a measly supply depot had been no problem. He would do whatever he could for her, including kill her enemies. Kill whole countries, if he had to. The rest of the gang would do the same if they knew what he knew about her. Being a Moriarty meant loyalty above all, and Elise Ellsworth was an honorary member of the gang he ran.

 Payments, Various 5

    Many things could be expected in life, but food popping through tables wasn''t one of them. Not long after Elise had pulled up to Table Seven, the middle section of it clicked down and away. None of the other students seemed to care about this curious occurrence, but a few of them smirked or rolled their eyes at her jump. Marek, who had been sitting across from her usual place before she reached it, only glanced at her over the top of his book, then returned to his customary mealtime reading. She leaned forward to examine the gap at the middle of the table. The center reappeared packed with both dinners and desserts. She jumped again.


    "You''re smart," said a cutesy voice. "The ones who aren''t usually put their fingers in the dumbwaiters, and then: <em class="western">snap."


    Something draped over Elise''s shoulders, startling her a third time. An arm, a bony one, had coiled around her. It belonged to an elfin girl with a mass of curly ash blond hair. She might have been the same age as Elise.


    "Does it always do that?" Elise said. "The table, I mean."


    "Yeah, but I''d like to know how you ever missed it."


    "I was late to my other meals." Leaning back, Elise could see that the table had a single pedestal at the middle, one so thick that it obscured the other side all the way down it its foot. "The ones that I remember, at least."


    The girl leaned in close, blinking at Elise. "Right, you''re Miss Amnesia," she said. "Oh, you''re prettier up close."


    How best did one respond to a compliment that was also an insult? Everything that came to mind might have escalated things into an actual argument, so Elise picked something else. "You''re pretty, too."


    And the girl truly was cute ¡ª in the way that a lion cub might be cute. Sharp, dangerous things lurked in her freckled pink face. Despite that, her wide eyes were fascinating, for their vivid orange-yellow color resembled the petals of an exotic flower. She shifted so that her forearm rested against Elise''s throat. "Aw, don''t spoil me," she said, tapping her fingers against Elise''s shoulder. Her pouty pink lips parted with an adorable smile. "If you''re too sweet, I''ll want to keep you this close all the time."


    On the other side of the table, Marek''s book convulsed in his hands. He didn''t look over it, not even as he spoke. "Don''t make waves among polite society," he murmured, with a singsong edge.


    If that had been an admonition meant for the curly-haired girl, she didn''t seem to care. Her restless hand settled on Elise''s shoulder, then squeezed. "There''s nothing wrong with getting a little wet." She turned her attention to Elise, then said, "Is there, honey?"


    Warmth crept into Elise''s face. She squirmed against the girl''s arm, though the weight of it wasn''t exactly uncomfortable. What was the matter with her? "Um, I guess not?"


    The curly-haired girl gave a breathy, captivating laugh, one that raced all the way down to Elise''s toes. "You don''t even know what you''re saying." Her mouth was soft and warm as she pressed a big kiss high on Elise''s cheek. "Let''s be pals, you and me, what do you say? Real good pals."


    Marek smacked his book down next to his place setting.


    "Dear me, it looks like I''ve upset our darling boy," the girl said. She unwound herself from Elise.


    He didn''t look upset. With his usual unhurried precision, he took his eyeglasses from the pocket of his sport coat, then put them on. He didn''t speak, he didn''t look at anyone, he just piled food onto his plate, so much of it that he couldn''t have finished it if he had been two people ¡ª or Elise. The giveaway was, as it had been a time or two before, the hard set of his jaw.


    "Why would he be upset that you''re talking to me?" Elise said. "Have we never done that?" Never mind that he had no right to be when he kept insisting he didn''t know her.


    "Not really." The other girl got herself a big helping of roast beef from the center of the table. "You keep to your little corners and I keep to mine."


    Elise reached for the nearest dish, which happened to be the same cabbage rolls Marek had taken for himself. They looked Polish-style, though there was a dish of German ones nearby. Which one should she choose? Or was the better question which one she had liked? Her hand wavered between the two. Why could she remember what these were, but not if she had ever tasted them?


    The curly-haired girl snatched up a pair of serving tongs, then plunked both types of cabbage rolls on Elise''s plate. "Try whatever you want, that''s what I always say." She chose other things for Elise seemingly at random ¡ª Salisbury steak loaded with mushroom gravy; stuffed dill pickles; potato casserole; corn pudding; cheese balls rolled in minced nuts; peas and pearl onions; tiny, savory tarts; roast lamb; pillowy Parker House rolls; tropical fruit salad; and broccoli with toasted bread crumbs. When she stopped to look at the arrangement, she pouted. "It''s missing something."


    Although Elise could eat a lot, there had to be some harmony between her dishes. "That''s all ri ¡ª"


    "I know!" The girl snapped her fingers. "Soup and a salad."


    A chowder full of fish heads was ladled into Elise''s bowl. The salad of mixed greens looked edible, but it was stacked so high above its designated plate that it teetered dangerously. "Thank you," she said, before anything else could be added to her plate.


    "Welcome." The girl smiled, then stuck out her hand. "Since you''ve forgotten who I am, I''ll tell you: June Foley."


    Elise shook hands with her. "It''s very nice meeting you, June."


    "Likewise." June sneaked a glance at Marek, who looked as if he was trying to stab his mashed potatoes to death. Was June another one of his enemies? She let go of Elise''s hand. "Well, we oughta eat before we get any demerits from budding dictators ¡ª whoops, I mean, power-inclined Underseers."


    The tightened muscles in Marek''s cheek ticked a little faster. Yes, maybe June was one of his enemies.


    "Demerits?" Elise said. Marek had given them to Romilly, but she couldn''t remember what they were for the life of her. She spread her napkin over her lap. "Those are mentioned in the University''s handbook, aren''t they?"


    "Maybe, but I never read that thing," June said, filling her own dishes with a disturbing array of foods. "You get them when you''re naughty. Get too many of them and you''re in trouble."


    "How many is too many and what''s the trouble?"


    June placed three rolls on her plate, apparently finished serving herself. She began slathering them with butter, which she literally took out of the hands of a frail green-skinned boy. "Five''s the limit in a month, and it earns you a note on your permanent records." She lifted her pale eyebrows at Elise, waggling her stolen butter knife. "Why do you wanna know? Gonna break a few rules?"


    Elise almost dropped the fork she had just picked up. How had June guessed such a thing? No one else could have heard what Elise and the rest of the <em class="western">Herald staff had planned to do in pursuit of Charlotte''s records. No one, unless June had the power to hear things at a distance, and that was a very real possibility in this town. Elise''s fingers tightened on her fork, knuckles whitening.


    "Look at your face!" June finished buttering her rolls, and slapped her knife onto the table. "Don''t worry. I know you must have a lotta questions after what happened to you, so I was just having a little fun."


    "That''s all right," Elise said, though it wasn''t. The joke had shaken her. It had hit unknowingly on the truth.


    She poured water into her glass, and June did the same for herself. That seemed to be the end of their conversation. Opposite them, Marek returned to eating his dinner instead of just mutilating it, taking in one mechanical forkful after another. She followed his example by making quick work of the food she had been given, avoiding the soup altogether. Those fish heads seemed to stare at her with accusations in their cloudy eyes. Only after she cleared her dinner and dessert plates three times did she finally feel satisfied enough to leave the table.


    As she headed off, her newest friend joined her. At Elise''s look, June said, "We''re going the same way, so we might as well go together."


    Elise barely suppressed a groan. For Pete''s sake, if she wasn''t dealing with one strange person, it was another. Well, at least this one was nicer than some of the others had been ¡ª more importantly, the name June Foley hadn''t been on the suspect list.


    Then again, June was a little too affectionate for a stranger. How was Elise supposed to get away from this odd girl without being rude? She couldn''t speed off; despite her healing body, her vigor had faded by this hour much the same as it had yesterday, unaffected by food. And she still had forgotten to ask anyone why that was the case.


    "Yes," she said. "We might as well."


    As she and June joined the last of the other diners trickling out of the Refectory, she skimmed the crowd for familiar faces. No Willow, no Ian, no one at all that she knew, except for Gerver.


    The mere sight of the professor drew Elise''s back up, but he was her only choice unless she swiveled around in search of Marek. That might be a bad idea considering the way he seemed to despise June. Witnessing another fight was the last thing Elise wanted to do. Besides, Gerver was on her list of suspects, too. Keeping an eye on him was necessary no matter how distasteful. She latched her gaze to his back, not a difficult thing to do when that greatcoat made him stand out like a dark beacon. Once she finally squeezed her way through the doors and into the corridor, she pressed into the gaps of the dispersing crowd after him. June kept up with her.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Gerver hooked down a narrow corridor, forcing her to follow. His pace picked up. Any faster, and he would be going at a slow run. She would never catch him then.


    "Professor!" she called.


    He jerked to a stop like a marionette whose puppeteer had suddenly forgotten how to work strings. His coat settled around him, yet he did not turn. "I don''t have all evening to wait, not even for invalids," he said.


    "Jeez, he''s more of a jerk than usual," June grumbled. "What''d he eat for supper, a bent knife?"


    Elise let that go without comment. "I have a few questions for you, sir."


    "And I have a busy schedule," he said. "Speak quickly."


    June sighed. "Well, this is where you and me part ways," she said, in such a feminine copy of Marek''s joking tone that Elise couldn''t help but stare at her. June giggled, then patted Elise on the top of the head, saying, "Don''t look sad ¡ª you''ll see me around, kitty-cat," before she skipped off into the main corridor.


    Now it was just Elise and Gerver. Though he might be a killer, her anger from their last conversation hadn''t ebbed; it grew as she shortened the distance between them. Such turmoil was at odds with their surroundings. Night flowers began fanning open on the walls, their pale petals glowing under wallpaper starlight. Moths wobbled from one bloom to the next, coming away dusted yellow by pollen. A sensual floral scent filled the air, with sweet and smoky notes beneath, as if a thurifer had passed through half an hour ago swinging a censer. The dark aroma slipped deliciously down her throat, settling in her lungs. She knew this perfume. Had worn it when ¡ª


    <em class="western">Warm fingers stroked her face and curled in her hair, light yet steadfast. Lips tasted hers with a hunger that spilled over into her, overflowing wine poured from cup to cup.


    The momentum of her wheelchair carried her only a little farther, for her hands were on her face and in her hair, trying to push away the phantom''s caress.


    When had she worn it, that perfume? It hadn''t been on the vanity in her room; she had gone through all those things. She would''ve remembered such an aroma, in any case. It hadn''t been Charlotte''s scent. Had it belonged to another woman? Was that the person she remembered kissing her? Or had it been someone else, and that perfume somehow hers? Elise dropped a hand to where the ghost of another mouth had just supped.


    "Why do you haunt me?"


    She lifted her gaze to Gerver, who had come closer. "Wh-what?"


    "Perhaps ''haunt'' isn''t the proper word," he said. "The living don''t have the courtesy to melt away in daylight, as the shades do."


    Several choice words for him came to mind, everyone of them bad enough to have earned her a demerit or two. "I came for questions, not a lecture."


    He took a half turn away from her, starting his usual hunt for his cigarette case and lighter. It was a quick search.


    "Did you smell that perfume just now?" she said, forcing both her hands to drape over her lap. If she kept them on the wheels of her chair, she might be tempted to escape.


    His cigarette jounced between his lips as he spoke. "Miss Foley''s perfume preferences are of no interest to me."


    "No, it wasn''t hers; it came from the wallpaper." The plain black wallpaper that showed no hint of a pattern now, animated or not. Why had it changed?


    Flames failed to spark off his lighter. "A visit to the clinic might be in order."


    "It was real, I know that it was," she said. "It came from the paper, or ¡ª" She shook her head. What she had seen hadn''t been on the wallpaper, had it? "No, that''s not right. I remembered it. A memory that wasn''t strong enough to make me have an attack, but a memory all the same." That sounded right. "A garden at night, full of moonlight, moths, and flowers. Then someone kissed me ..."


    His lighter jumped from his hand. It hit the floor and spun, spun, spun in the space between him and her.


    God, why had she mentioned the kiss? She tucked her chin towards her chest, avoiding whatever look he might be giving her. A stormy one, in all likelihood. "Sorry," she said. "I shouldn''t have told you that."


    After a moment, he leaned down to seize the lighter off the floor. As he snapped upright, he said, "No, for Christ''s sake, you shouldn''t have told me that." He took his cigarette out of his mouth, thrusting both it and the lighter back into his coat. "You shouldn''t have done, but you did, El ¡ª"


    Gerver shook his head, mouth pressing together in an ugly grey line. Voices drifted by in the corridor behind her, loud and joyous and stupid. He tracked the passage of their owners over the top of her head, never once allowing his stare to settle on her. Their merry conversation echoed like a bad radio signal long after their footsteps had dispersed. The professor waited until the final static burst of laughter had disappeared before saying a word.


    "What do you wish to ask?"


    "Three things." There were really four, but she would select the third depending on his answer for the second. "Why do I feel tired? Shouldn''t eating cure sleepiness the same as curing broken bones?"


    He finally gave her a sidelong ¡ª and incredulous ¡ª glance. "I should have known you''d ask something so inconsequential."


    This man never changed. Pure kindness and consideration seemed beyond him. "It''s not inconsequential to me."


    Gerver eased his gloved hands into his coat''s pockets. "Your body is reversing its damage, so it''s only natural that you feel tired," he said. "Meals are your bricks and mortar, but the housebuilder is your power, and it doesn''t work without payment."


    Why did that have to make sense? Couldn''t he have just lied instead? Things would have been much easier if he could give her a firm reason for his name being on her list of suspects. Or perhaps he was lying with such finesse that she hadn''t doubted his explanation until this very second. No, wait, if she couldn''t tell, then she shouldn''t bother trying to. She could listen to his answers without trusting them. The important part of this conversation was building some sort of rapport with him. If she could do that, she might be able to eventually cross his name off her list ... or cross all the others off, and leave his.


    "Can I die?" she said.


    His posture stiffened. "Your official files only mention you as very difficult to kill." Now he met her gaze. "It''s an odd way of wording things, don''t you agree?"


    <em class="western">Read between the lines, he was telling her. If her official files mentioned her as difficult to kill, then there might be unofficial files that said she couldn''t be killed. She would have to confirm this, of course, but if it were true ...


    "One more question." He turned away from her. Being in profile made him more bearable to look at. "You had three, and we''ve come to the last."


    If he had said that she was able to die, she would have asked him what he thought the reason for her attempted murder had been. But her final question was the other option instead. "Why would anyone try to kill me if I can''t be killed?"


    "That," he said, "is a very good question. So good, in fact, that I''m sure you''ve already come up with its answer."


    He had an annoying habit of being right, damn him. Or half right. She had come to a partial conclusion. "It doesn''t make sense unless Charlotte''s killer is a complete idiot," she said. "My power doesn''t seem to be a secret, even if the specifics of it are. So if murder wasn''t the point of my ''fall,'' then something else had to be."


    The full answer revealed itself before she finished speaking. How could she have overlooked it? No, no, there was no point in thinking like that. She wasn''t really sure if she was immune to death or not right now, so this was all speculative until someone else, someone more trustworthy than murder suspects, could corroborate Gerver''s claim of her deathlessness.


    But the answer still weighed on her tongue. "Erasing my memories, that was the point," she said, and those words sounded just as right as the ones that he had given her.


    "That''s assuming that whoever killed Miss Cooke is the same person who had manipulated your mind," Gerver said.


    "What makes you not assume it?"


    "Assumptions kill ... Or sometimes one wishes they do."


    He seemed more to be speaking to himself than to her. Had he wished to have been killed? Why? Because of the way that he looked? No, that didn''t fit. While he was aware of how he looked, he didn''t seem despaired by it. Something more would have had made a man like him desire death. But what, exactly?


    Well, what did she know about him? Not much, but he was what Marek had called a stacker, someone with more than one power. Too many powers, Gerver had said. <em class="western">But perhaps that is my price for surviving what killed worthier people<em class="western">, his memory reminded her. Her eyes roved over his gruesome face. He was an Addy, and Addies were made, not born. Yes, he might have wished to die for whatever had turned him into a monster, yet had killed others. Especially if an assumption had led him to it. That would have meant it had been his fault, or that he felt it was.


    "It must entertain you, staring at me," he said. "You do it often enough that I should start charging for it. My going rate should be about the same as that of a freak show. That suits me, don''t you think?"


    Her cheeks scorched with shame. She shouldn''t have watched him for as long as she had, but did he have to be so rude? No, that wasn''t true. He had often been rude to her even when she hadn''t done anything wrong. Cruel, too. "I wasn''t staring. Not the way that you meant it."


    "Intentions and actions frequently diverge."


    Now she stared at him in the way that he had meant it, as if he had just shambled from a circus tent. Come see the man who lived on bitterness alone. "Why do you hate me?"


    "There it is, the deadly assumption," he said. "It''s also an extra question." He dug his cigarette and lighter out of his coat again, which seemed more a habit of nervousness than vice. "But you know the answer." He failed to bring up a flame. "It''s there, inside your skull." A flame appeared on his lighter and finally lit his cigarette. "Just find it. Find everything, and then you''ll know what you''ve done."


    She had done something? What could she have done to anger him? Had it been that supply depot Marek had told her about, the one that had been robbed? Could she have really done that? Gerver was Chief of Security, so he might have suspected her. That could be a reason to hate her.


    Yet something about that rang hollow. Had she some hidden life of crime, he might have warned her to keep her nose clean. His dislike of her seemed emotional, not clinical. She must have earned his wrath in another way.


    Elise said, "If I offended you, or, or, or if I wronged you somehow in the past, I''m sorry for it."


    "You can''t be," he said. He drew off his cigarette. "You''re not who you were, so you can''t truly be sorry for what you''ve done."


    Okay, she had enough of him for one day. No, for a lifetime or two. Three, even. Attempting to keep a close watch on him would been impossible when he was constantly stabbing her with vitriol.


    "Fine," she told him, "I won''t be sorry."


    He didn''t stop her as she set off. She had lied. She <em class="western">was sorry, but not for offending him. She was sorry that she didn''t know what kind of person she had been. As she turned into the main corridor, she almost ran into someone. She gave profuse apologies. Her words fractured at the sight of Josephine Wong staring down at her.


    The University''s president looked even more astounding up close: her eyes were the same color as her jaw-length waves of violet hair, and her fair skin was dotted with speckles in various shades of purple. Her clothes, another women''s suit, were stark black, and they made her look austere. She might have been in her forties or fifties, which seemed awfully young for the president of a university.


    "I''m sorry!" Elise said, finally coherent again.


    She seemed mildly amused by Elise''s panic. "Yes, I heard you the first time."


    Anyone could have heard Elise. Her apologies, though full of stuttering, <em class="western">had echoed down the corridors just moments ago. "No, I mean, I''m sorry that I fell asleep on the night Gerver ¡ª Professor Gerver ¡ª went to go find you."


    "I have no issue with you there," Wong said. "I would have gone to the clinic whether you had been awake or not. After all, an attack on a student is an attack on my school."


    "You believe that I was attacked?" Elise didn''t allow herself to give into relief, because other people believed she had been attacked, too. Those same people believed that Charlotte had been killed, but her death was still officially an accident.


    Those violet eyes narrowed the slightest bit. "What we believe and what we can say are not always the same things." Wong relaxed her expression. "Now, you''ll have to excuse me; I''m a very busy woman, my dear."


    Much as it felt like it sometimes, Elise wasn''t the only person in the world. It was only natural that the president of an entire university have other matters to tend to. "Oh, of course. Goodbye."


    Wong bid a curt goodbye in return, then walked down the corridor that Elise had just left. The girl craned her neck to watch the president meet Gerver, who stood far from the spot that Elise had left him. Had he followed her, intending to talk more? He looked none too pleased to see Wong, so perhaps he had.


    "Halston, I''m glad to have found you," Wong said. "We need to discuss the ordeal."


    He started to reply. Elise made her escape, and did not look back. Any delay might have meant Gerver catching up to her, if that was what he had intended to do.

 Payments, Various 6

    She was dead. No, she was deader than dead. Deader than a doornail, deader than Latin, deader than God, and it was all her own fault. She shouldn''t have fooled around like she''d done. Not with him.


    Marek stopped in the thin corridor he had chosen for the express purpose of murder, then forced his rage aside. The idea of killing June Foley had let him blow off some steam ¡ª he wouldn''t have actually done it. The mess, the noise, he just wasn''t in the mood for that. And the cover-up would''ve been more trouble than a few moments of quiet were worth. Besides, everyone who knew June felt like killing her now and then. She brought that out in everybody without really trying, and when she did try, nobody had a good day except for her.


    He turned around to face her. Didn''t spin, didn''t whip around, just turned. If he showed any anger, she would have thought she had won whatever game she was playing. She stood about five feet away from him, well out of arm''s reach. Always did whenever she pissed him off. Oh, how she had pissed him off. He''d never killed one of his own, but it didn''t seem such a bad idea right now.


    She took a good look at his face and scooched back a few inches.


    "Explain."


    "Explain what?" she said, in that kittenish voice of hers. It wasn''t an act; she really did sound that godawful. But she wasn''t dumb like she pretended to be.


    "You know."


    "What, you mean I should explain what I did at dinner?" She gave him a sweet smile that no one bought once they''d spent five minutes with her. "That was nothing. I was acting cute just so I could figure out a little something."


    Yeah, and he had a sinking feeling as to what that little something might be. Or who. "Well, go on, don''t keep me in suspense," he said anyway, motioning impatiently. "What do you think you figured out?"


    "You''re planning something with that Elise Ellsworth," she said. "Something big. I know you are, so don''t lie. C''mon, what is it? Are you gonna scam her for money? Her daddy is rich, so that''s got to be it."


    He almost laughed. It would have brought it to tears if he had. Planning something big? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that wasn''t what he''d expected. Good thing it wasn''t. Let June think, hell, let everyone think what they wanted to think. His enemies would assume the worst, and so would his allies. Not a problem. If they thought he had ulterior motives, then they''d miss his real ones. A mistake like that would keep him safe, and if he was safe, Ellsworth was.


    "I''m not planning anything with her," he said. "She''s my best friend in the whole wide world, because she''s never needed anything from me but myself." He pressed a palm against his chest. "And that''s the hand-on-heart, one hundred percent, God''s honest truth."


    Few people were privileged to hear such honesty from him, but June had no idea of that she had been listening to it. She shook her head. "Wow," she said. "How did you manage a straight face during a speech like that? I thought you''d burst into flames."


    A smile broke out of his face like a shark breaking through a wave. "You wish."


    She probably did. When she strolled off first, he did the same. He didn''t catch up with her or passed her by. It never bothered him to play the follower. The key to being an effective leader was to not worry about appearances. Leaders didn''t worry ¡ª even when they followed, they led. And looking like a nobody had always given him advantages.


    * * *


    This wasn''t Hall Seven, but it was a Hall all the same, one with an ink-colored seal bearing a white number six right above a door of red-lacquered wood. Red covered the walls of the corridor, too, in a pattern of staggered Art Nouveau diamonds outlined in bold black. It was beautiful but sterile, a combination that made Elise''s legs burn with the urge to run. She couldn''t run, though, and not just because she was in a wheelchair. She had a question about herself that someone here could answer, and so she had let instinct lead her here.


    Now she had to find out if her instinct had been right. She touched the door. It didn''t open like the door of her Hall would have, so she knocked. Loudly.


    A bland-faced boy answered after half a minute. He gave her a long look before saying anything. "Wait," he said.


    The shutting of the door echoed around her. She waited, counting the time. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, all the way to ninety-nine one thousand. Then the door opened again, revealing her sister. Curious girls peered around Meliora at Elise. She stepped out, shutting the door firmly behind her.


    Meliora crossed her arms. "Why are you here?"


    Since rudeness had been the opening gambit, Elise could have comfortably used the same move. She didn''t. That would have put her on a level playing field with Meliora, and higher ground was where she wanted to be. "I''d like to ask you something."


    "Then ask it."


    Bluntness for bluntness, then. "Can I die?" Her sister said nothing, so Elise elaborated. "My power, does it allow me to ¡ª"


    "Be selfish?" Meliora''s hands clamped down on her own arms, digging into them in a way that must have been painful despite the thick fabric of her dress. "Yes, it does." Her eyes burned in her beautiful face like blue fire. "Nothing hurts you for long, nothing makes you sick, and nothing will ever kill you, unlike more deserving people." Her tone grew loud, unsteady, but she kept talking. "You can even keep your youth. Isn''t that wonderful for you?" She sneered. "Aren''t you glad that you can have that all to yourself forever and ever?"


    By God and all His creations, Elise couldn''t die. She squeezed her eyes shut in relief and horror. No reason to fear death, but no reason to want life. What an inhuman fate, immortality. To see everyone else wither and fade, to see civilizations rise and fall ... But would that still matter after a while? A hundred years would be a blink compared to the history of the earth, and less than a blink compared to the life of the universe. People rarely lived to be a hundred. Everyone she knew now would be dead in less than a century while she would be endless, eternal, ever-living. Unable to do anything except go on and on and on. She might even outlast the human race.


    "How could anyone want that?" she said.


    Meliora''s lip curled. "Of course you''d snivel over a gift like that. That proves you shouldn''t have it."


    The cruelty of other people was rapidly losing its ability to surprise Elise, but the absolute hatred in her sister''s eyes hit like a kick to the gut. There was something else there, though: jealousy. It hollowed out Meliora''s cheeks more than they already were, made her look a corpse that had clambered out of a grave. Something was wrong with this girl.


    "You''re ill, aren''t you?" Elise said.


    "Yes!" Meliora fell back against the door, panting with something that wasn''t anger. The shadows seemed to have darkened beneath her eyes. "Yes, I''m ill and it''s your fault," she spat. "I''d be fine if you could be useful, but you''re not." Her chest heaved as she sucked in a giant, wet-sounding breath. "Your blood doesn''t heal me, it doesn''t heal anyone. You''re good for nothing, don''t you understand?"


    Many questions had their answers now. Why Elise had been left alone in the clinic, why her sister didn''t like her, why Willow had got that strange look when Elise had called the Ellsworths kind for taking in an orphan like her. The old clothes, the unsmiling family in the photographs. This was the life she had been leading, the life that she had awoken to.


    An unreleased scream ached in her throat. "A doctor with a sick daughter in need of a cure ..." she said. The ache deepened. "That''s all I ever was to any of you, wasn''t it? A cure for the only child that counted to your family."


    Meliora stared at her with a glassy, hostile gaze that confirmed everything, and Elise spun her chair away from it. She was done wasting time on the Ellsworths.


    * * *


    Personal quarters meant little to Halston Gerver. There had been nothing personal about the many places he had inhabited for over a decade. The best ones had been <em class="western">impersonal quarters, and the worst had disturbed what small snatches of sleep he required ¡ª a minute here, a minute there, but long enough for old screams to echo through his memory. His current space was located close to his office. He rarely stay there longer than necessity dictated. It acted as a store cupboard for clothes and things better left in the shadows.


    The room had only changed for him once, on the evening that it had been appointed to him. He had settled down for a moment, opening his eyes when the bed had shifted beneath him. What had greeted him had been the most astounding sight, an ostentatious Victorian bedroom that had shrunk into a Spartan room more suitable for barracks than a university. Despite being warned that such a change might occur, it had still brought him straight off the bed. Although it hadn''t turned into the room that he feared it might have become, he had inspected every inch, memorized it, and then avoided it as much as possible.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Avoided it, for it was where he allowed himself to think of the past.


    It didn''t die, the past. Men and their ideals died; places altered, sometimes into the unrecognizable; one era melted into the next, and yet those things lived on for as long as the people who remembered them would live on, tarnished by time and nostalgia.


    He came to the narrow, grey door of his narrow, grey room. Hesitation. When had been the last time he''d fallen prey to such a thing? A long time ago, a lifetime ago, when the future had seemed bleak and bright all at once. Holding her face in his hands and hesitating.


    His heart gave a single pained beat. He couldn''t think of her in the corridor. Too many people passed through corridors without really seeing them, and filled them with indolent gossip and nonsense chatter. Thinking of her required privacy and quiet so complete that it echoed with the sacred solitude of an empty temple. He pressed his hand to the door, and it opened.


    Nothing about his quarters had changed. Still small, still dull. The room closed itself once he cleared the threshold, as it had always done. He headed for the metal wardrobe in the far corner, where he stowed his personal items, clothing included. Set deep within, beneath hanging jackets and coats and trousers, was what he sought. A dented metal box. He opened it with a small key that he kept on his person at all times. Only two things sat inside, both protected by tissue paper. He unwrapped them, took them both out, then brought them to his bedside table.


    The framed photograph he set face down; he had yet to steel himself for it. He removed his gloves as he sat on the bed, then turned his attention to the flacon of amber-colored Narcisse Noir, one quarter emptied. The stopper released without fuss. He daubed a generous swipe across his wrist, for only on the skin did the scent unfurl and live.


    At the first hint of pale flowers, orange, and incense, he found himself standing in a garden filled with moonlight and moths. Their garden, where she waited for him amongst the blossoms. She stood before him still and silent, her eyes demanding that he come forward. He did as he had always done in this perfect memory, striding towards her in confidence, cupping her head in his hands, and hesitating to do anything else.


    Then she stood on tiptoes to kiss him, her mouth warm and wet and ¡ª


    Gerver capped the bottle, her touch and her perfume swirling sickly in his head. Enough time. He glanced at the clock by his shuttered window, one that opened on a field it shouldn''t rightfully have faced from this side of the Manor. An hour and a half had fled while he had taken refuge in the past. Yes, more than enough time.


    Setting aside the flacon, he took up the silver-framed photograph. The photo had lost a corner and had been creased vertically, but the important subject''s face was still clear. God, if he could have truly returned to the past, he would have done many things differently, including tracking down color film. Black-and-white failed to capture the full liveliness of her eyes, or the many shades in them.


    But he couldn''t stay here lingering over the photo, not when the truth had finally come to light. Everything had changed. He had changed ¡ª no, he hadn''t done that. Part of him had been reawakened, that was all. Something dead had come back to life after a long, dark slumber.


    He left his quarters at a gallop. Anyone that he met in the corridors flattened themselves against the walls at the sight of him.


    Wong didn''t look up when he flung open the door to her office. She remained behind her heavy desk examining papers. "Most people would consider knocking standard," she said, placing her signature to the bottom of a page, "but those standards are beyond you, aren''t they?"


    He closed the door as carefully as he could manage to do, then barred it behind him. Unlike many doors in the Manor, it had a conventional lock in addition to its unconventional one.


    The click drew her head up. As soon as she saw his undoubtedly grim expression, she stood. "What''s happened?"


    He threw the photograph her way, which she caught on reflex.


    She gave it a cursory glance. "I''m going to ask why you have a photo of a student, and you''re going to give me a reasonable answer."


    "That''s half the image," he said.


    Wong made short work of opening the frame. She unfolded the photograph, revealing a double portrait that he had no need to see, for it was permanently etched in his mind:


    The woman he had loved ¡ª still loved ¡ª and the man he had been.


    They had taken the photo cleaved together in front of her bedroom mirror, the camera held in both their hands. He had been facing the glass, but she had inclined her head the slightest bit while locating the shutter release. She had looked up at his reflection. He had seen her watching him, then pressed a kiss to her hair just in time for it to be immortalized in film. Her half-smile had been captured perfectly.


    "This is you," Wong said, "before ..."


    "Before the Nazis, yes."


    "Then this can''t be Elise Ellsworth." Wong stared down at the photo. "Thank goodness for that."


    "It is her."


    "This is a nearly identical woman, but it''s not her. It can''t be." Wong sounded as if she were trying to convince herself rather than him. Had she actually disbelieved him, she wouldn''t have said any of that at all. She would have just told him to leave. "That girl was brought to the Valley when she was six years old," she continued, "and this woman looks to be at least in her twenties. Unless Ellsworth traveled back in time to somehow meet you, they''re separate people."


    He said nothing, because the correct conclusion had been reached.


    Wong sighed and threw the photo onto her desk. "You can''t be serious."


    "She''s not <em class="western">nearly anything, that girl," he said. "Her hair, her eyes, her voice, even her power ..." His hands became fists. "All of it is the same, exactly the same, and I know how that sounds, but it''s the truth."


    The president''s face softened, and he knew what that meant. "Halston," she began, softly. That tone of apology and pity that he knew so well.


    "She remembers me!" Gerver held back the rest. Yelling further would make him seem as if he were raving. He had to remain calm if he was to convince Wong of his sincerity, if nothing else. "She remembers me," he said, tone low, "and I''ve never forgotten her, not for a moment. That photograph, it''s the only thing that I have of my former life. The only thing." He forced his hands to open, his fingers to relax. "It''s been dangled before me by the jailers of one prison or another. But even when they''d refused to show me her, she stayed with me."


    His heart thudded within his chest so quickly that the pace of it almost felt human. "I held her within me like an old song, and when I saw her again, every note rang true." Such maudlin words spoken with conviction. More than just his heart had become human again. "But I thought the similarity a coincidence, one unfair and cruel ... until tonight, when Ellsworth remembered something only that woman could have known."


    "That can''t be possible. No Extraordinary is capable of time travel, and the science ¡ª" Wong shook her head. "The science doesn''t exist; it''s science fiction."


    He dropped into one of the chairs before the desk. "I thought myself mad," he confessed. "But I''m as much a madman as Elise Ellsworth is a doppelganger. When she''d spoken with me after dinner, she remembered our garden, she remembered her perfume, she remembered me." He took in a breath. "She can''t have done that unless she has traveled through time or risen from the grave. And I believe that she''s done both."


    Wong fixed him with a sharp stare.


    "Yes," he said, "my Eleanor died. My poor, sweet Eleanor who had the power to heal herself." He had never before allowed himself to speak so frankly to Wong, or, indeed, to anyone. Save Eleanor. She had been the exception to many things.


    Revealing that side of himself had been the right call, for Wong sank into her own chair. She sat there for several moments without speaking. "I''ll need evidence before I can believe any of this," she said. "Officially, I mean."


    "The British have it."


    Her face had all the softness of a steel blade. "Churchill has it, you mean."


    There was no reason to lie, so he didn''t. The only allegiances he had left were limited to a few friends and acquaintances. Everything, everyone else had betrayed him. "Yes."


    She folded her hands. "You said she had a power. I take it that she was one of his people?"


    "Unwillingly," Gerver said. "She was one of yours." Off Wong''s frown, he added, "An American, I should say, though not a citizen of the Valley. As far as I''m aware, your government never knew what she was, but the British certainly had known."


    Outrage and disbelief openly warred on Wong''s face. "You''re saying that they held an American citizen captive?"


    "No, they had also experimented upon her. Tortured her, if one wishes to use the honest term for it" ¡ª the thought almost unmanned him ¡ª "though I''d had no idea of that until the Jerries kindly informed me of precisely what my countrymen were up to." His hands dove into his pockets, searching for his cigarette case and lighter, but he didn''t take them out. He only wished to feel their weight. "Every government, they''re all the same behind closed doors. They take Extraordinaries and use them for their own ends. I know that now."


    He traced a finger over his initials engraved in the case. "But she never told me that," he said. "I''d only known that she hated working for us." She had never told him that, not in words. It had been in her eyes.


    "I had thought she''d imagined me her escape hatch," he continued, "yet I''d let her fool me ... I would have let her leave, too, if she''d tried." His finger stilled, pressing into the metal until it smarted him. "But then the Jerries told me another thing," he continued, "that''d she''d been killed, and not by them. She had come to save me, you see, and that meant I''d been more than a fool to her." His heart pounded harder. "It had also meant risking her capture by Germany." He pressed harder. The metal threatened to buckle, and he pulled back. "Risking everything we''d worked for. More, if the Nazis could''ve figured out how to harness her power."


    Ah, but he had gone on far too long with his emotions exposed. They needed to be tucked away, so he could pretend they had never showed, like a proper Englishman. He attempted a smile, and Wong looked elsewhere. People learnt to do that quickly when it came to him.


    "You took the Krauts word on her death?" Wong said.


    "No, not until they''d shown me the photographs of her corpse, and of the British agent who''d blown his brains out after he''d first done the same to her." He had memorized those photographs, too, despite doing his best to forget them. "The Jerries wished to know how her corpse had managed to disappear from their morgue. They''d assumed it was another spy in their ranks, like me."


    He had taken beatings for that one. After a fortnight of them, his guards decided he hadn''t been lying about his lack of knowledge.


    Wong looked thoughtful. "If she really was American, there should be records of her in our country."


    Leave it to Wong to find disappearing bodies uninteresting. To be fair, she had seen more inexplicable things, and it wasn''t as if he knew how the body had vanished, so there was no reason for either of them to labor over that point. There was also no question of why Eleanor hadn''t been mentioned in the Nazis'' research. They both knew that experiments and the files on them had been shoved into furnaces as American forces had stormed the facility where he''d been kept. He had watched it happen, waiting for himself to be next.


    "Quite the records," he said. "Her family, as I understand it, were ¡ª are ¡ª the Eastons."


    "You can''t mean <em class="western">the Eastons. But that would have made her ..." The president seemed unable to articulate the full conclusion she had reached. She left her desk again. "Let me see if I understand this correctly," she said, "assuming any of it''s true."


    One couldn''t blame her for such doubt. He scarcely believed the truth of things himself.


    She paced. "The British government held a daughter of the tenth wealthiest family in the world captive." Wong could not quite hide just how incredulous she found that statement. "That woman died without dying, turned years younger, then traveled back in time to become a girl who has been living here for over a decade."


    That was the sum of it. "Said aloud, it sounds almost as ridiculous as a town full of people with abilities that border on the magical."


    His ill-attempt at humor earned him a foul look. "Is there anything else I should know?" Wong said. "Anything at all?"


    "No," he said, "nothing at all comes to mind."


    But that hadn''t meant he had told her everything. A decent spy always knew when to hold back.

 Interlude: Nocturne 1

    Dying was nearly pleasant. It hurt in a distant way, as if the memory of pain had stolen over him on an evening long after the war had ended. A dream or a nightmare, the events of which unfolded with the ludicrous logic of sleep.


    <em class="western">Look down, his failing brain said, <em class="western">and see <em class="western">yourself<em class="western"> in the middle of th<em class="western">at <em class="western">road<em class="western">. See yourself watching<em class="western"> the shadows of <em class="western">two dancers<em class="western"> in the house on the left as they flash <em class="western">shadows <em class="western">again and again<em class="western"> between the blackout<em class="western"> curtains of their parlor<em class="western">, moving without music<em class="western">. <em class="western">You''re<em class="western"> bleeding to death, and it''s sensible to look at something beautiful when dying<em class="western">, you know<em class="western">.


    It was very sensible, indeed. Much more sensible than lying in a rain puddle and trying to keep your guts spilling out from where they belonged ¡ª and he wasn''t doing a good job of that, was he? He caught glimpses of the couple as they turned about to some inaudible tune, white-haired and clinging to one another as they spun round and round. God, it would have been wonderful to have been that old and that in love someday.


    But he had no "someday" now. No days left at all.


    "Lovely, aren''t they?" a woman said. An American. Her dark voice might have been at home in a cabaret, singing sorrowful love songs.


    Christ, death had made him banal. Halston turned his head to the woman, gasping with pain. How could something as simple as moving his neck do the same to the old trench knife in his belly? He dragged his gaze up the shadowy figure of a woman, seeking her illuminated face. Such a pity and a pleasure to see a face like that, towards the end. Pity that he should never see it again, pleasure that it would be the last thing he saw.


    She had eyes only for the dancing couple. "I''d like to grow that old with someone, wouldn''t you?" she said.


    Absurd. Here he was dying, and this girl, this woman, was speaking to him as if they were both waiting for the next dance at some dreadfully boring party. He said yes. Tried to say yes, yes, he would like to grow that old with someone. The words refused to come. His mouth trembled and blood bubbled out of it. Everything trembled, even the buildings and the slice of dark sky between them. It wouldn''t be much longer for him. Please, God, let it not be much longer.


    She knelt down to him right there in the road. Her stockings would be ruined by the puddles, if she had any on ¡ª rationing had meant cutting back on so much. Even Mother had resorted to painting on cream stockings, despite being able to afford silk on the black market that people above a certain class pretended they didn''t frequent. Had to set an example, Mother did. But this girl was American, and might not care about King and Country. It wasn''t her war.


    Stockings. Did the dying always dwell on such preposterous thoughts? No, no, never mind that. He wanted to tell the girl not to bother, that it was fine, perfectly fine, not to tend him. Don''t weep over a lost cause. Don''t dirty yourself in the gutter. Don''t try to save me, it shall make leaving all that much more of a fuss.


    Weeping didn''t seem to be on her mind, for she leant down and pressed a cool finger to his lips. No glove on her hand. She must have taken it off; even with the shortages, women kept themselves presentable when out and about. Another absurdity, thinking about her gloves.


    "Hush," she said, "I''ll make your wish come true."


    What wish? To grow old? His chest jumped with a laugh, and the knife stabbed him again like fire.


    Her mouth burnt him far worse. He bucked back from her fire, but there was nowhere to go, not with the road under him. He pushed uselessly against her arms.


    She reached down and tore the knife from his guts. He screamed into her. Hands clutched his face as she breathed into him, filling him with the sun itself. The flames fed their heat on his body until the light of an inferno consumed his pain. Bells seemed to ring above him, through him, a high, celestial, silver sound unlike anything he had ever heard. The song of a holy choir.


    He could have listened to that forever had she not broken the kiss. His mouth chased hers, but she gave a shake of her head and he obeyed. He stayed still, watching as she plucked a handkerchief out of her bag to wipe her lips free of his blood. The blood that was no longer flowing freely from the ribbons of his stomach. His hands roved over what had been raw ruins moments ago, finding smooth flesh tacky with gore.


    "What have you done?" he said.


    The woman ¡ª no, girl, she looked about his age ¡ª brought the handkerchief down to dab his lips like his mother had done when he''d eaten sweets as a boy. "A favor for a favor."


    "How can I repay you?" He almost choked on the words. She had saved him in a way that nothing could explain, except for miracles. This girl, this creature, she had to be heaven-sent. "How can I ever ...?"


    Her smile slipped into him like another knife, one that pierced his heart through. "Promise me you''ll live, and grow a head of white hair. The color seems as if it''ll suit you."


    "I ... I don''t understand." He pushed himself onto his elbows without a hint of pain anywhere. "Why me? Why have I been chosen?"


    Tucking the handkerchief back into her shoulder bag, she tilted her head quizzically at him. "Because I was walking by," she said.


    A voice announced, "How I doubt that."


    Halston looked to the source, but the girl didn''t. Few people would have done when they had an Enfield pointed flush against the back of their head. "For Christ''s sake, get that away from her, Archie," he said. "She hasn''t hurt me."


    Archie Crowther-Cohen, his uncle and one of his greatest friends, did not lower the gun. Color splotched his boyish face, standing out starkly against flesh that currently resembled whey. "No, she hasn''t hurt you," he said, not looking away from the girl, "or so it seems."


    "She helped me."


    Archie''s gaze darted towards Halston. "At what cost?" he almost yelled.


    Curtains twitched in the windows of the terraced houses up and down both sides of the road. A few of them stayed all the way up as people gawped at what was happening.


    "They''re watching," the girl said. "They can see what you''re d ¡ª"


    He jammed the revolver against her skull so hard that she rocked forward with the force of it. "Shut up!" he hissed through his teeth.


    "Fucking hell," Halston said, scrambling to his feet. But the Enfield twitched his way, and he didn''t make another quick move. "Archie ¡ª Uncle Archie, please. She saved me. You saw that."


    "That''s precisely why she needs to be taken in." Archie glanced over the girl to the houses behind Halston, where the dancers had been turning. "We should hurry; some meddler or another must''ve phoned the police by now."


    Those words left Halston unmoved. If he could just get Archie to lower his gun, then he might have a chance ... The girl caught his eye, shaking her head. If his intentions had been obvious to her, then Archie couldn''t have missed them, either. It wasn''t as if he could do much against a revolver, at any rate; he had been useless against a knife.


    The knife, where had the knife gone? He could make use of that if only he could find it. Looking down would have only alerted Archie to what he was searching for, so he kept his head up, moving only his gaze.


    He hadn''t been nearly as clever as he''d hoped to be, for Archie said, "This is bigger than you can imagine. Get in my way and you''ll leave me no choice."This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Of that, Halston had no doubt. His uncle had never spoken to him that way before, as if the two of them were enemies. It chilled him more than the spring rain had done earlier, when it had been falling in sheets. "All right, Archie," he said. "All right."


    As they moved to the pavement, Archie instructed Halston to confiscate the girl''s bag.


    "I don''t have anything in there you need to worry about," she said.


    "I''ll be the judge of that," Archie told her, then nudged her ahead of him with his gun. He didn''t let her get far; he grabbed one of her arms with his free hand so he could walk side-by-side with her, pointing the revolver flush against her rib cage. They looked like mismatched lovers.


    Bile rose in Halston''s throat. His parents couldn''t have believed funny old Archie capable of such violence even if they''d seen it themselves. Halston hardly believed it. His uncle hadn''t looked dangerous even when he''d been an Army man. He''d been funny, charming, and a bit outlandish. These days, with his pencil mustache and bad tie, he looked like a smartly dressed spiv selling things that''d fallen from the back of a lorry. Tonight, he seemed more a gangster than anything else.


    Besting him would''ve been impossible. Halston had only left Sandhurst and joined the Army a little before war had been declared with Germany. Uncle Archie had been in the Army half his life until a car accident in that same summer had left him with a limp. That accident had also rendered Halston all but blind in one eye, and his hopes of a military career had been dashed. Fighting proved difficult, not to mention dangerous, when he could only see half the world. Hence the knife that had been stuck in him.


    Attacking his uncle was also out of the question. The girl had saved Halston, but family was family. Besides, Archie wasn''t unreasonable. He wouldn''t be doing this on a whim.


    Or could he be? It might not be impossible. Hadn''t Halston''s first instinct been to stand against his uncle rather than help him?


    He tried to shake off the traitorous questions. Bringing himself to the girl''s other side, he apologized as he took her bag. An embarrassing moment passed before he worked out how to open it ¡ª a difficulty made worse because he couldn''t stop walking to do it. If it hadn''t been for the curious residents lifting their curtains, he wouldn''t have seen the trench knife, still wet with his blood, sitting amongst her belongings. At least he now knew where that had gone off to.


    "Well?" Archie said. "There''s something, isn''t there?"


    "Yes," Halston said. The girl stiffened beside him. "A dangerous assemblage of weapons unlike any I''ve seen in my life." He pulled out several of them as he spoke. "Lipstick, rouge, face powder ..." He dropped them back in. "If Hitler has taken to nighttime strolls through Buckinghamshire, he''ll turn tail at the sight of these. They aren''t his colors."


    "Quiet. This is no time for your cheek."


    The three of them quickly passed the houses with raised curtains, plunging themselves into the darkness of the unlit street. Halston glanced back. No one had come outside, and most people had stopped peeking. Whether they''d done so from fear of whatever they''d witnessed or of blackout penalties would have been impossible to say. It might''ve very well been both.


    They soon reached the place where Archie had parked his Vauxhall. The front doors were still open from when the two of them had given chase to Carpenter, and the keys had remained in the ignition.


    "Drive," Archie told him. "Our new friend and I must get acquainted."


    Halston closed the passenger door before going over to the driver''s side. While Archie forced her into the back of the saloon car, Halston took the knife out of her bag, then stuck it under his seat. He could retrieve it later, when Archie had regained his sanity. Or if. In the rear-view mirror, Halston caught a glimpse of the girl as she settled into place behind him. Though her face showed no terror, it was as white as a winding sheet.


    They left the small village without incident, and good riddance to it. The place had proved to be bad luck through and through.


    * * *


    They stopped outside an estate several miles away, one guarded by men in dark military uniforms that Halston had never seen in his life. Archie showed them identification, and explained with a nod to the girl that he was "bringing in a volunteer." This required an examination of Halston''s driver''s license, but the men ignored the girl. They also ignored the gun that Archie was pointing at her, as if this manner of thing was a frequent sight. When the guards seemed sufficiently satisfied that Halston''s license was real, they allowed him past the gates. The rolling land on the other side contained an enormous country house of two stories, several wings, with many unattached buildings, all barely sketched out under the moonlight.


    "What is this place?" he said.


    "My headquarters," Archie replied. "The ones I''ve been given charge of."


    Only one person could''ve put Archie in charge of anything. "The old hussar needs you to work outside the Toyshop?" The nicknames probably wouldn''t give anything away to the girl, so they were safe to use.


    "He has many plans, all of them very important." Archie nodded at the door. "Be a good lad and let me out. The sooner the boys upstairs have a look at her, the better. And bring her bag."


    Halston''s fingers itched to grab the knife from under his seat. But he didn''t, because if he couldn''t trust family, then he couldn''t trust anyone. He grabbed her bag, got out, then opened the door for Archie and the girl, unable to meet her disappointed gaze for very long.


    The inside of the building wasn''t what he''d expected. Two guards sat behind a desk in the ground floor''s entry hall, both of whom seemed to know Archie by sight. The bigger of the two looked from Archie to the girl, then from the girl to Halston. "A new one," Archie explained, his hand tightening around the girl''s upper arm. "The boy''s my nephew."


    "Is he now?" the guard said, shrewdly inspecting Halston. He got up from his chair, swinging a ring of keys on one finger.


    "That''s him," the other guard said. "Don''t you remember the article that Archie brought in? The ''English Leonardo,'' they called him. An artist and an inventor before he''d even left that academy of his. Didn''t have a photo, that article, but look at the resemblance."


    A new light, a good natured one, entered the big guard''s eyes. "You''re right ¡ª that''s him."


    "Yes, it certainly is," Archie said, with a note of impatience. "Now if it''s not too much trouble, I really would like to get this one upstairs." He gave the girl a shake for emphasis.


    "Oh, sorry, Archie." The guard led them to down a short corridor to a single lift, one that required a key to be opened. He stayed outside the lift after the doors opened, bidding the men goodbye; the girl he adamantly avoided looking at.


    The three of them traveled up to the first story. They entered what might have once been a rather luxurious sitting room. It now resembled an office, aside from several alarming differences. Its large windows had been painted black and set with narrow steel bars, a sinister combination that set Halston on edge. The paint wasn''t unusual, not with the wartime blackouts, but there was no reason for the bars this far from the ground. Ordinarily, at least. There were more bars of a different sort ahead and to the left, enough of them to make three rooms filled with half a dozen people. No, not rooms. Holding cells. Halston''s gaze roved over the workers of this office. Saw their holstered guns, the handcuffs on their belts. Holding cells and jailers manning them. Or police detectives; these fellows had that look about them.


    As Halston, his uncle, and the girl passed by the cells, he got a better look at their inmates. One of them seemed to be passing time by making clouds out of thin air shoot little bolts of lightning at his sleeping cellmate. Another in the last cell had skin mottled with shiny patches like fish scales.


    "What are they?" he said, in wonder.


    "Monsters." Archie looked grim. "Just the same as she is."


    The girl kept her head high, and said nothing in her defense.


    * * *


    She sat on the other side of the glass as if waiting for a bus. Not to say that a girl like her would have waited for buses. Clothes as fine as hers meant a life being driven about by chauffeurs, not busmen. The most common difficulty girls of her sort had involved not knowing which gown to wear for a dinner party. Despite knowing that wasn''t exactly the case with her ¡ª few reputable women walked the streets alone at night, especially now during the war ¡ª Halston had trouble shaking the image. When she had touched his lips with her bare finger, her skin had felt as soft as that of any pampered lady.


    Physically, she offered even less of a threat. Of no great height and of no great size was she. One of his hands could''ve spanned halfway round her waist, if not more, and he only a little taller than most men were.


    "I don''t believe you," he said. "She can''t be a monster. It''s ridiculous. She saved me."


    "Do think logically," Archie said. He had ceased his interrogation of the girl, and rejoined the room where Halston had been waiting. She had refused to answer his questions, citing her country of origin as an excuse. "Any ordinary girl sitting in an interrogation room would be weeping, not calm. And how, I wonder, has an American civilian come overseas in wartime?"


    Halston could raise no argument to those points. Yet something in him stirred uneasily. "Are you going to tell me what this is about? This place?"


    "Not yet, but you''ll have to be brought on after what you''ve seen. I would''ve brought you on, eventually, of course."


    His uncle patted at his jacket and waistcoat for cigarettes, when he found none, Halston offered him one from his own pack. The two men smoked without talking for a time.


    Halston said, "Does that offer of yours require the usual expectations of silence and secrecy?"


    Archie gave him an irritated look; he never liked unnecessary questions. "What we''re doing here will change the world," he said. "A girl who can save people from mortal injuries ... that could turn the tide of the war. Imagine how many lives could be torn from the jaws of death."


    The problem was that Halston <em class="western">could see it, and that any objections she might have would become mere annoyances. When it came down to it, was he really the sort to run roughshod over one in the name of the many?


    Archie was as attuned to Halston''s train of thought as ever. "If you were to breathe a word of it to anyone, not even I could save you from what would happen afterwards."


    The choice had been made for Halston."I understand," he said, but that reply was a mere formality.


    That was the last he would see of the girl who had saved him until the summer. After that, he traded in his duties in MD1 for a position in an unnamed department that he could tell no one about, except for those who had already known of its existence.

 Interlude: Nocturne 2

    Thin. She looked thin. Tired, too, with those circles under her eyes that makeup had done little to hide. But she was alive. In the months since he had seen her, Halston had feared what might have become of her.


    "Come to stare at one of the side show freaks?" she said. "I should start charging all of you; I''d make a small fortune off it."


    He almost dropped the cup of tea he''d brought her onto her desk. "I''m sorry," he said. "I hadn''t ..." He pushed the cup and saucer towards her, as if it might ward off her wrath. "I hadn''t meant to stare, I had just wanted to be certain that you were all right." He gave a smile of the variety that girls usually seemed to like ¡ª neither wide nor flashy. "Have you been all right?"


    His smile had no effect on her. "There are worse places to be a prisoner."


    Halston winced. "You''re not a prisoner when you''ve volunteered to work here."


    She looked around the office. Few people were here at this hour; most of them had gone to lunch in the dining hall downstairs, but those who remained weren''t close enough to hear this conversation. There were also no new potential volunteers in the holding cells. Taking up the cup of tea, she said, "If that''s what you''ve been told, it''s a lie."


    Coming to her had been a mistake. "Archie was right," he said. "I shouldn''t have bothered talking with your sort, not when so many of you keep trying to undermine the war effort."


    Her laugh was low and beautiful. Why did it have to be beautiful? She took a drink of her tea, then made a face. "Sugar next time."


    "Rations," he replied. "It can''t be helped."


    "Yes, just like keeping an American citizen captive couldn''t be helped. I''ve heard it all before." She looked him over. "What are you, twelve or thirteen?"


    Her blunt attempt at antagonism had no effect this time. "I''m twenty."


    She drank again. "Twenty." A shake of her head. "And you just came from that Toybox place, right?"


    "The Toyshop. That''s not the official name, regardless, it''s ¡ª"


    Waving him off, she said, "The official name doesn''t matter. The point I''m trying to make is that this isn''t like your last job, playing around with weapons. It''s people that are the toys here, flesh and blood."


    "You''re volunteers, and the Prime Minister has given us permission for what we''re doing here."


    Her expression chilled, not that it''d been very warm to start with. "I''m not a volunteer. You know that."


    He looked away from her with a stab of guilt. "You might not have started as one," he said, "but you became one."


    "I didn''t."


    "Forgive me if I shan''t believe you."


    The girl took a long, deliberate drink of her tea. She looked as if she were thinking about throwing it in his face, and he took a step back from her desk. "If Churchill knew half of what went on here outside his rare visits," she said, "he''d rescind whatever permission he''s given. You''d agree, too, if you knew, if you''d seen ..." She stopped. After taking several breaths, she began again. "You haven''t seen me since I saved your damned life, so you don''t know what''s happened to me." Her rising voice caught the attention of one of the men halfway down the room. She tended to her cup again.


    Such strong language from a girl of her obvious class! How could she use it so easily? Perhaps there''d been more to her than he''d first thought. She offered a challenge, or, at the very least, a change of pace. He drew up a chair from one of the desks near hers, the one he''d been assigned. "Tell me."


    She shook her head. "You won''t believe it."


    Ah, not very much of a challenge. Pity. "I take it that you won''t tell me, then? That must mean you have no proof."


    "You won''t believe it, but you will." She set her tea down. "The longer you''re here, the more you''ll see."


    "Like I said, you''ve no proof."


    A small smile slid onto her face. "Carpenter. That was the man who stabbed you, wasn''t it?"


    "Yes," Halston said. Just where was she going with this?


    "He''s dead now," she said. "Your uncle killed him. Apparently Carpenter was feeling an attack of the conscience over what''s been happening here." She took another drink of her tea. "That''s why he ran. He wasn''t selling secrets like your uncle claims; he knew Archie was insane before he was given this department."


    "I don''t believe you." Yet his voice didn''t carry through the right amount of conviction.


    She looked oddly happy at those words. "Good, don''t. But believe yourself. There''s the record room right over there. You''ll see. This department started before the war, but it''s been growing uglier by the day under its new emperor."


    He rose. "I doubt that."


    Her smile seemed poisonous. "Not for much longer."


    But as he left, the doubt he held wasn''t for what she had said. It was for what he had been told by other men, Archie included.


    * * *


    He didn''t check the record room. Not that day. But curiosity got him the next afternoon. He read the file, saw the truth of things, then went straight to his uncle''s office with it.


    Archie looked in annoyance at the file that had been lobbed onto his desk. "It usually takes a week or two before new employees begin throwing things at me."


    "You killed Carpenter," Halston said, before he''d completely closed the door behind himself.


    His uncle leant back against his chair. "Carpenter tried to kill you and he tried to kill this department." Archie tucked the spilled papers back into the file. "If you''d read any farther, you would have known that before you came barging in." Holding the file out, he added, "Don''t speak with Miss Easton more than you''re required to do. She delights in tormenting the gullible."


    A moment passed before Halston connected that name to anyone he''d met here. It could only have belonged to the girl. He should have asked it of her. "Miss Easton?" He frowned. "Why does that sound familiar?"


    "Because other than the war, the newspapers and the wireless have been bleating about her." Archie gave a frown of his own. "When was the last time you''ve actually read anything outside work reports, Hall? What you''d been doing at MD1 was important, more than important, but it''s not the only thing to pay attention to. There is a war on, you know."


    "She''s the missing American heiress?" Good God, she hadn''t been lying. "She never became a volunteer after her interrogation, did she? If she had done, she wouldn''t still be considered missing."


    Archie sighed. "It sounds terrible, but it''s a necessary evil. We can''t win things without sacrifice. Her temporary discomfort ¡ª"


    That confirmed what she had told Halston. "She has family looking for her!"


    "Her temporary discomfort," Archie continued, as if he hadn''t been interrupted, "is little compared to what scores of other people are facing. She gets more than most do. Her wardrobe includes silk clothes, for heaven''s sake. She''s hardly a prisoner."


    "Can she leave any time she that she wishes to do? If she can''t, then yes, she''s a prisoner."


    Disappointment hardened Archie''s face. "Don''t be a fool, boy. Not like that Carpenter had been."


    Halston gave a start at the sudden coldness of his uncle''s tone. He read the rest of the message in those eyes, cruel eyes that were the same dark blue as his own. <em class="western">Say anything, and you''ll end up the same way Carpenter <em class="western">has done<em class="western">.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    It hadn''t been the first threat that Archie had delivered to him, but it had been given in stark daylight and in a calm tone. So Halston said nothing, not even when he left Archie''s office to go to his own desk. He worked instead. Once most of his colleagues had left their unnamed department, once Archie had left, he went into the record room again. He read many files for a long time, taking notes, until someone tapped on his shoulder. He whirled about on his left heel ¡ª always his left, never his bad side ¡ª to find the girl holding a cup of tea out to him.


    "You looked like you could use this," she said.


    He set aside some files so he could take the tea from her. "Er, thank you, Miss Easton."


    "Eleanor, please."


    Eleanor, yes, that had been her first name. He''d heard it on the wireless back when people had still been reporting her disappearance. That''d been months ago, however. Without any substantial rumors or proof, the story had sunk beneath the waves of war coverage. Yet he''d never seen a picture of her, not in all these months, so he''d never connected the American heiress to the miracle girl who had saved his life. Perhaps he should start reading the papers again, like Archie had said to do.


    The thought of doing anything his uncle recommended almost put him off his tea, which included, by the grace of God, more than just water. Had he been alone, he might have sighed happily due to sheer gratefulness. "How did you ever find sugar and milk?" he said.


    "I have extra rations."


    "Because you''re an heiress?"


    She sat on top of a low table where he''d been reading his files, a move that temporary exposed her above the knees. Her stockings looked as if they might indeed be silk, a fact that Halston lingered over even as he looked politely away. "Because I''m a monster," she said, drawing down her skirt back where it belonged, and drawing his gaze, too. "If I didn''t need them, your dear old uncle wouldn''t let me have them."


    "Why would you need extra rations?" He drank his tea. "You don''t look as if you eat very much."


    Gesturing to the pencil he had behind one ear, she said, "May I?"


    Confused by the non sequitur, he handed it over without thinking. What little of her thighs he had seen had been very attractive, and his mind was still largely on them. If Archie wasn''t lying and she was truly here of her own free will, then perhaps Halston might ask her if she''d like to go with him to ¡ª


    She promptly stabbed herself through the hand, all the way through, with only a brief cry of pain.


    He stared in horror as she wrenched the pencil out of her flesh. The wet sound it made when she pulled it free shocked him out of his trance. "My God, are you mad?"


    "Sometimes," she said. "Look."


    "I don''t want to look."


    But he did. The wound was healing. What had once been a clean hole through her hand was now closing up, muscle knitting together, then skin. The angry red wound became a scab, and the scab curled up and fell off to reveal a pink scar that quickly faded into nothing. She dropped his pencil in a nearby rubbish bin. "Sorry, did you still want that?"


    He had somehow managed to hold onto his tea throughout the entire ordeal, spilling only a few drops in his saucer. Commendable, really. He set it down so he could grasp her hand. Inspecting her palm, he said, "How on earth do you do it?"


    "Beats me." Her stomach gave a very loud gurgle. "Oh, just like clockwork." As he gave her a look, she continued, "If I use my power, I need to eat. A lot." She held out a hand to him, the one that wasn''t covered in blood. "Would you mind?"


    "Would I mind what? Watching you do something terrible again?"


    "Would you take my hand? I''d like to get off this table, and I don''t want to get it bloody."


    He took her hand, and together, they got her back on her feet. If he held onto her a moment too long, she didn''t seem to mind it. He grabbed up his tea. It would''ve been impolite of him to waste it. "You could''ve just told me of your power."


    "Demonstrations are more effective than words."


    That was true, though his appetite regretted what he had seen. He drank his tea, anyway.


    "Come on," she said, leading the way out of the record room, "there''s half a chicken in my icebox, and some ham, too. We can have sandwiches." She spun to look at him after she stepped out into the main office, her skirt flaring. "Do you eat ham? Mr. Crowther-Cohen said you''re Jewish ¡ª or that he and your mother are, so does that mean you are, too?"


    "I was raised Anglican, but more than a few small-minded bullies liked to tell me what I was or wasn''t." Some still did, though they''d grown rarer as he''d grown taller. "And yes, I do eat ham. It''d be rather difficult avoiding pork, considering my father''s German."


    When he caught up to her, she turned back round to face forward. She glanced at her palm again. "Oh, that darned blood. It''s harder to get off when it dries, so we''d better hurry. I can wash it off in the kitchen." She picked up the pace, and so did he. "That can''t be easy. Having a German father at a time like this."


    "No, it hasn''t been," he said. "Although Father came to this country before the First World War, he''s still seen as something of an outsider." At that time, his father had been little older than his son was now, an age that had seemed impossibly ancient when Halston had been a boy. "He''s a German with Anglomania, straight down to his admiration of Shakespeare."


    They moved out of the main office and into the lift, Halston waiting until she had got on before he entered. Once he had closed the gate, she turned the brass car switch to the left, and the lift began to sink down. "What did he do during the Great War?" she said, settling in rather closely beside him.


    Halston found the lack of distance difficult to mind. "Father went into the British Army and served his chosen country well." A faint, sweet scent came to him. Her perfume. "Of course, he had his share of troubles due to his heritage. He likes to joke that he saw more fighting in the trenches from Britons than he had from Germans."


    The lift came to an automatic stop with a loud chime, and she let go of the switch, which drew back into its neutral and upright position. Neither she nor Halston moved; the gate of the ground floor wouldn''t open unless it was unlocked from the outside. One of the guards appeared at the end of the long corridor that led to the lift.


    "He was eventually awarded a Military Cross for his gallantry, then had a bar added to it for the injuries that got him invalided out of the war," Halston went on. " ''I may have lost my leg, but I kept my pride,'' he told me once. If he''d kept the leg, I imagine he would have attempted to volunteer for this war without thinking twice."


    Eleanor smiled just enough to move the corners of her mouth. "What does he do now, your father?"


    "After the war, he went back to university, then later became a professor of English literature. That was how he and Mother met, the university."


    "Was she another student?" Eleanor said. "Or his student?"


    "Another student, from a different university. But Granddad ¡ª her father ¡ª had been a professor of my father." The guard was taking his time getting to the lift, but Halston minded that about as much as he minded Eleanor''s closeness to him. "She visited Granddad one afternoon, saw my father lingering after class to ask the old fellow a question, and was instantly smitten with the young, wounded hero. She pursued him, a rather easy thing to do when he was on crutches."


    This time Eleanor laughed instead of just smiling. God, what a delightful sound. She began to say something, but the arrival of the guard kept her from it.


    Halston only just managed not to curse the man. He found himself hurrying after Eleanor, who had left first ¡ª she was surprisingly fast for such a small thing. They turned down another hallway, pushing deeper into the ground story. "Before I start detailing all my ancestors," he said, "what about you? What about your parents?"


    "Oh, you probably know all about them." She gave him a sly glance. "You were in the record room just now."


    "Yes, but I haven''t read your file." He had been tempted to rifle through it, but had restrained himself. Reading the intimate details about someone with whom he would be working struck him as wrong and cowardly. If he had anything he wanted to know, he could either ask her or wait for her to trust him enough to tell such things. "I haven''t read any files on any of my colleagues, or the current volunteers."


    The joy in her expression dimmed. "We''re not all volunteers," she said, "but all of us are subjects."


    His temple pounded at the mention of this very familiar topic. "You''re an American, not a British subject."


    "Don''t pretend you''re obtuse," she said, catching onto his deliberate mistake. "We''re subjects as in experiments, ones who don''t get to choose what happens to them."


    Archie had said she liked tormenting the gullible. But he had also confirmed what she had said: that she wasn''t here of her own free will, and that he had killed Carpenter. Hadn''t ordered him killed, had killed him directly. Even with all its blacked out lines, the file on Henry Carpenter had made that much clear.


    With all that in mind, could she be telling the truth now? Could she be telling the truth on everything? Or had Archie been right in his assessment of her, the girl who didn''t weep like an ordinary one would''ve done? The civilian who had come to England during wartime?


    She had told the truth on other questions that had been answered, so it was possible that she could be doing the same thing now. As for what Archie said of her, those claims were suspect after all that he had done.


    Those things sat uneasily in Gerver''s stomach long after he entered the dining hall with Eleanor.


    They went to the kitchen, where she washed her bloodied hand while he got things out of her refrigerator. It had a chain and lock on it, the key of which she had given him from around her neck. They made sandwiches, then sat down at the kitchen table to eat, rather than going back into the dining hall. Halston barely touched the food she had offered him. She said, "If you''re not going to have that, I will."


    "Please do."


    She rose, leaning across the narrow table to take Halston''s plate. Instead of doing so, she covered Halston''s hand with one of hers. "Don''t blame yourself," she said. "Someone would have caught me eventually. That''s the nature of men, to cage what they can''t understand."


    He said the first thing that came to mind. "I''m sorry you think so little of my sex."


    Her kindness, it was to blame. He could have withstood hatred, but kindness? What could he do with kindness in a situation like this? How could she be kind? If she hadn''t saved him, she wouldn''t be here. Yet she was here, and she still kept her hand on his, attempting to comfort him.


    "It wasn''t an insult. I''d meant ''men'' as in ''mankind,'' dear boy." Despite sounding perfectly polite, her eyes mocked him. "Though you must admit that men have had the run of things for a long while."


    Halston pulled his hand from hers. "I''m hardly a boy."


    "You''re twenty." She took his plate up, then sank back into her chair. "That''s young in my book."


    "You''re only a year older than I am."


    She smoothed her napkin back onto her lap. "Thank you for reminding me," she said, as if he had told her that she had dropped a few pence on the floor, "I''d nearly forgotten."


    He almost said that she was being ridiculous, until her face turned from innocent to impish. Being ridiculous had been the point. Although she was a prisoner in this place, she had wanted to cheer him up. It should have been the other way around. The small gesture lifted his heart, just as the little laugh she gave did. For a moment, she let him forget about the guilt he well deserved for being one of her many jailers.

 Interlude: Nocturne 3

    Eleanor didn''t bring up uneasy subjects for the next several weeks, so Halston quickly adapted to the routines of Wickerwill Hall. His work mostly involved analyzing what various substances did to the blood of volunteers. It wasn''t always as boring as it sounded ¡ª just last Saturday, a Welshman working in the laboratory had singed off an eyebrow after putting flame to a round-bottomed flask. Now everyone in their unnamed department knew that heating the blood of a volunteer with ice abilities could produce deadly amounts of steam. The incident had resulted in several lectures on safety protocols, and speculation on how to weaponize such a dramatic and dangerous effect.


    Halston had no experiments today, thankfully. All he needed to do was compare the last week''s blood samples of volunteers to this week''s batch. The work was tedious, but necessary; two weeks ago, a select number of volunteers had begun taking various medicines that might dampen the effects of their strange powers. Any changes needed to be noted, then compared to the blood samples of non-medicated volunteers.


    Far beyond his work table, the door to the lab opened. Eleanor strolled in, wearing a laboratory coat over a suit; she had taken to such fashion after one of the senior scientists had said that women draped in silk only acted as a distraction to the work of men. Her commitment to irritating her critics set a shining example for Halston. One day, he would be such a gadfly to his enemies.


    "Do you need any help?" she said, entering the storeroom to the side of the lab. She located a pair of rubber gloves and put one onto her left hand. It would keep her and the samples free of contamination, but also allow her to have a hand free for other things.


    No, he didn''t need her help, but he would enjoy the company. He wouldn''t tell her that, though. Whenever he saw her, his heart beat like that of a lovesick schoolboy. The intensity of his fascination with her was embarrassing, and he didn''t want to be like the rest of the men who stared after her whenever they thought she wasn''t looking. Sometimes, they wouldn''t even wait for that.


    "Yes," he said, "I could use some help."


    His pulse began rushing in his ears before she reached him. He needed to stop thinking like this. Fancying her was nothing more than the direct result of her having saved his life, and the fascination he had for her power.


    "Where do you want me?"


    Good Lord, did she have a talent for accidentally unnerving him! "Hand me that slide there, would you?" he said, as he unnecessarily adjusted his microscope.


    "Which one?"


    "The nearest, the one with Paxton''s blood smear on it. It''s labeled on the end with his initials."


    "Here," she said.


    He glanced from the corner of an eye that could no longer be called useful, then sighed before turning to face her. She wore a hurt expression, and now he needed to explain himself. "Sorry," he said. "I wasn''t upset with you. It''s my eye." He gestured vaguely at it. "I should be used to it by now, the trouble that I have seeing from that side."


    "Sounds like the trouble didn''t happen very long ago."


    Her quick mind was always a pleasure, especially compared to some of the thick-headed fools in their department. How so many men with so many degrees still managed to be stupid about the simplest things baffled him. Thank Christ he''d gone into the Army instead of university, even if it had led to the ruination of his sight. That had led him to her, too, but he couldn''t let his thoughts get away with him. "No," he said, "it wasn''t very long ago. I''m almost blind in that eye. I can see light and shadows by it, and colors, sometimes, too."


    "Are you in any pain?"


    "No." He shook his head. "No pain."


    She bit her lower lip. Her mouth was bare of lipstick today, for she had taken to infrequently wearing makeup "in the name of the war." It seemed that she really went without it so she wouldn''t have to hear the men grumbling about her being extravagant when their wives, sisters, mothers, and daughters went without. Now they grumbled about her not looking presentable. Being a woman seemed an unwinnable war.


    "If you hadn''t been injured," she said, "would you have wanted to fight instead?"


    "I would''ve more than wanted it," he said. "A year before the war, I''d gone straight into the Army after leaving Sandhurst, commissioned a second lieutenant." Talking about his former life didn''t sting as much as it used to do, but the pain of it was still present, like an old wound that sang when storms came. "That''s not as impressive as it sounds; any new officers out of the academy are given that rank. I would''ve gained a much higher one, eventually, but then Uncle Archie and I had that damned ¡ª er, blasted car accident, and it was all over for the both of us."


    If his swearing bothered her, she kept her thoughts securely away from her face. "His limp''s from a car accident?"This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Why did speaking with her always prove to be a mistake of one sort or another? "Yes, but he doesn''t like to have it mentioned."


    "I''ll bet," she said. "Everyone here thinks it some kind of war wound."


    "If they don''t know, then I''ll ask that you please don''t tell them. He really doesn''t like to mention it."


    "Don''t worry about me." She gave him a smile that didn''t reassure him at all.


    * * *


    His unease had good reason, as the next morning showed. Save for the household staff and most of the guardsmen, everyone working at Wickerwill came to the dining hall for breakfast. That included volunteers like Eleanor. The first sign that the day was off to an abnormal start was where she had chosen to sit ¡ª the chair to the right of the head of the table, where Archie always sat. She never sat near him if she could help it.


    Halston, arriving late, had to sit halfway down the table opposite her.


    Knifing into soft-boiled egg with a spoon, she said, "Was your recovery a quick one, sir?"


    No, she wasn''t asking that, was she?


    Though Archie didn''t answer her, she went on. "It must''ve been, because you were able to take over this department so soon."


    God, she was.


    Halston tried to catch her eye, but he was too distant from her. Yet even if he''d been sitting next to her, he might have been unable to do anything. Few could withstand the force of her personality.


    Archie disliked conversation during mealtimes, thinking it crass. Not one person in the hall was unaware of that fact, for he had reminded them of it several times since Halston had begun working there. Even so, Archie set aside his cutlery and spoke. "For all their money, it seems that your parents had failed to buy you decent manners."


    "It''s because of my manners that I''m inquiring after your poor leg," she said. She took a moment to eat a bit of her egg. "You know, it really is terrible that people get into car accidents in this day and age." She didn''t seem to notice Archie standing from the table. "Something ought to be done about the safety standards. But it''s a relief that you weren''t actually injured while you were in the Army."


    When no reply came, she looked up at him with absolute innocence.


    Blood had darkened his face. Veins stood out in his neck. He lifted one of his hands, and drew it back. She flinched, turning her head aside in expectation of a slap. In a flash, his hand was down at his side again, having never struck her at all. He threw his napkin onto his plate, then stormed from the hall.


    Halston rose, his mind blank and guts twisting. How could Archie had thought of hurting her? A woman? A civilian? Though telling everyone the truth about Archie''s leg had been unkind, hitting women wasn''t the sort of thing that men did, not in Halston''s family, and certainly not in his mother''s family. But a man of his family wouldn''t have pressed a revolver to her side and abducted her off the street, either. Yet he had done so.


    He dropped back into his chair at that thought.


    Besides Eleanor, no one had much of an appetite left. They had conversations instead. Whispered ones. The contents of them were clear to Halston without him ever needing to hear a single word. When everyone finished not eating breakfast, they hurried off to wherever they would be working for the day. Eleanor took the stairs instead of the lift up to the first story, so Halston did the same. As ever, they had to wait an interminable moment before one of the guards unlocked the gate to the grand staircase. No one wanted to risk any of the low-level staff going upstairs, so such precautions had been necessary to install.


    On the first break that she had, Halston had one as well. She stood facing the doorway of the tea room as he entered, leaning against a table.


    "Well," she said, "go on. Tell me how I shouldn''t have gossiped. Blame me. Say it''s my fault."


    That she thought he was going to say those things pained his stomach even worse. He rushed to her, but stopped when she flinched. Flinched, as if he would''ve hurt her. He turned to shut the door, and stayed pointed in that direction. "Has he ..." Halston began. "Has he tried to hurt you before?"


    "Oh, Archie''s been the perfect gentleman." Footsteps. The sound of the kettle being put on. "It''s what he orders the doctors to do that really hurts."


    "What do the doc ¡ª"


    "You don''t want to know." Now the pantry door opening. "You couldn''t handle it, and even if you could, you wouldn''t believe it."


    He spun to face her. "You can''t know that."


    She took a tea tin down from one of the pantry shelves. "Assumptions can be deadly," she said. "Or at least painful. If I assume you''re kind, that might be a big mistake on my part." She set the tin onto the worktop. "I already miscalculated today, as you saw at breakfast."


    "I''m sorry," he said. "I''m sorry that I hadn''t been sitting near you at the table. If I had been, I might''ve ¡ª"


    "Done nothing." She moved to one of the cabinets now, taking out sturdy tea mugs instead of cups. "You would''ve done nothing, the same as everyone else has done nothing. That''s how it goes. One man rules, the others obey."


    "That''s not true," he said.


    But was it? If Archie had struck her, what would have Halston done? Stood with her or with his own family? The fact that he didn''t have an immediate answer plunged a knife in his guts, one made of his own guilt and shame. What sort of man had he let himself become? The answer came to him, and it twisted the blade. He stood in dismayed silence until she finished the tea, serving him a mug complete with sugar and powdered milk from her personal tins.


    "Thank you," he said, but not only for the tea. Just giving it to him had been a sign of kindness he hadn''t deserved, not when his uncle had almost slapped her. "Thank you for letting me know who I am."


    She stood before him clutching her mug in both hands. "Some days, it feels as if I''ve been thousands of women ¡ª perhaps even tens of thousands. Some good and some bad." Her gaze grew distant. "But always the same soul. An unending ouroboros whose only change is the shedding of its skin." She clutched the china hard, then loosened her grip. "If you don''t like who you are, change yourself."


    "You make it sound as if it''s easy."


    "It''s easier than staying the same," she said.


    Yes, it would be easier, wouldn''t it? Much easier than letting himself grow into a hateful, spineless thing. Easier than growing willfully ignorant of the difference between right and wrong. Easier than letting the orders he was given or the actions of other men go unquestioned.


    "You''re right," he said, and drank of the gift she had given him.

 Interlude: Nocturne 4

    It was only natural that they got to know one another. She didn''t seem fond of anyone else in Wickerwill, not even the female secretaries who worked on the ground floor; he didn''t want her to be lonely; and they were both the youngest of those working in the main office. His guilt over the way Archie had captured her faded somewhat as early summer grew into late. It had been helped by the fact that Eleanor didn''t blame Halston for what had happened to her.


    "Life is luck," she had once told him, when he''d admitted how he felt responsible for her situation. "Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Eleanor Easton has it pretty good, overall, and you weren''t the one who led her here by gunpoint." Patting his hand, she had added, "And she doesn''t regret saving you."


    She spoke often in that way of herself, as if Eleanor Easton might be a girl that she wasn''t, one of the many oddities about her that so thoroughly transfixed him. Her being a year older than he was also lent to his hopeless fancy for her, as it had seemed then a tragically wide span of time between the two of them.


    They became unofficial partners, which had also seemed natural. Their desks were already right next to each other, so they might as well be, too. Unless they had gone off to their respective bedrooms for the evening, or Eleanor had to have one of her frequent medical examinations, one of them could never be found far from the other ¡ª so much so that those who weren''t close to them called them Eleanor and Halston, while those who were close to them preferred Ellie and Hall.


    "It makes us sound like a vaudeville act," she said, one rare afternoon when they had time to stroll the estate. The two of them had elected to go along the dirt road that led to one of the farms. The sun was shining, and the few clouds above looked like balls of cotton that someone had shredded and strewn across the sky.


    He almost stumbled over his own feet. "You can''t mean that."


    "Well, it''s true."


    "Neither one of us is a fire-breathing contortionist, or a ..." Mentioning half-naked women would''ve been crude, so he changed course. "Or anything like that."


    She pursed her lips in the way that she sometimes did when thinking. "Is this one of those moments where we realize that what I mean by ''vaudeville'' and what you mean by it are two different things?"


    "I should hope so," he said.


    Her elbow bumped against his side. "Well, tell me what your version is."


    "I-I''d rather not say."


    "Oh, that must mean it''s something scandalous." She glanced slyly up at him through her eyelashes. "How often do you go see the shows?"


    Eleanor laughed and ran away when he protested, saying that she couldn''t trust him now. He gave chase, hunting her deep into the greenery that had grown thick and dark and deep half a century ago. She slipped around trees, then between the posts of a broken fence that led to the western pond. He caught her where the willows swayed over the water''s edge, taking her around the waist without thinking. She twisted in his hold, and they tumbled together to the grass, the dripping branches closing like a verdant veil around them. He''d only just kept himself from accidentally crushing her.


    Had she always been so frail, or did she only seem that way when beneath him? Staying like this wasn''t proper. He needed to move, yet he found that he couldn''t. Not when her eyes held him as they did. There was a great deal of green in them, those eyes. Green like the leaves around them, and brown like the bark, with a dozen other little flecks of color that he could stare at until the night came.


    She stared right back. Her arms and dark hair were sprawled loosely above her head, and her chest rose to press his at the height of her every breath. "You''re not the first man who''s looked at me that way."


    "You''re not the first woman I''ve looked at this way," he said, though that tasted like a lie. The beating of his heart, the hot and cold prickling of his skin, the uncertainty trembling in him like a spiderweb in a gale ¡ª all felt new.


    Her gaze issued a challenge, as did her next confession. "You''re not the first man who''s kissed me."


    He dipped his head down. But he didn''t kiss her. The moment he cherished best was the one before the kiss, when he could see his own anticipation mirrored in the face of another. "I''d like to be the last."


    She drew upward. "They usually want to be the first," she said, her breath hot against his mouth.


    "That''s always seemed dreadfully unfair to me." He brought a hand to the side of her face, stroking her temple with the backs of his fingers. "How could I ask you to wait for me before we''d ever met?"


    Someone called his name, then hers. Not far, that voice. Just by the road.


    "We could run away," he said. What he had intended as a simple joke took on another meaning as he finished saying it.


    Yes, they could run. All she needed to do was tell him to take her from this place. She didn''t even have to say it aloud. He would hear it, then they would go. It would be the easiest thing he had done in his life, no matter how hard it would be. They''d leave together. She''d be free of everything.


    "They''ll find us," she said, and it didn''t seem as if she was talking of the voice calling from the road. "Wherever we go, they''ll be looking."


    "Then we''ll run when they think we shan''t. When enough time has passed for them to think us loyal. When their eyes turn to other things."


    She flung her arms around him, crushed herself to him. Asking him without saying a word if he could promise her the things that he had said. He pressed a kiss against the top of her head to give and seal his oath, one that he should have given months ago. Then the voice called again, and they untangled from each other. They rose, brushing off their clothes. They both had earned grass stains. "We''ll tell them we fell," he said. "Like angels."


    "Like angels," she agreed, and took his hand. She only let go just before they left the cover of the trees, but he felt it long afterward.


    Later, when he would be locked in a dark cell with nothing to do but think, he would know how wrong he had been. The easiest thing he had done in his life wouldn''t have been running away with her; it had been falling in love with her. That had been so easy that he hadn''t even realized what had happened for months.


    * * *


    Summer fell into autumn. Throughout all that time, Halston and Eleanor had stolen little more than glances and brief brushes of the hands. Anything more would have been too much of a risk. Others were always milling about, or always needing something to be done. He seemed to be the favored target of such requests. Eleanor was within their sights just as often, having showed herself capable many times in both mathematics and science. She had little squeamishness as well, which was how the two of them had ended up dissecting frogs in one of the smaller wet laboratories during the first week of December ¡ª wet laboratories being where wet and disgusting things were examined.


    "I''ll never get used to the smell," she said, cutting into a fresh specimen on her side of the work table.


    He had ceased smelling anything at all, thank God. Occupied by his own frog, he didn''t look up from it. "We wouldn''t have had to smell this if you hadn''t volunteered us for it." He probed the frog with a gloved finger. "Does this stomach look desiccated to you?"


    She peered at him, only her eyes showing above her face mask. "Mm ... It looks wrinkled."The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    "The insides of things are always wrinkled, in one way or another." An inescapable truth after he had looked at dead things all day. "This one looks like it might be slightly worse off."


    She squinted. "It does. A little. Maybe."


    "Thank you," he said, "for being completely unhelpful."


    The corners of her eyes crinkled. She had to be smiling under her mask. "You''re welcome."


    He sat back from his table. "Well, that makes it, what ¡ª six damaged frogs out of five hundred? Not a bad number."


    "Four hundred and ninety-seven," she corrected, "but yes, not a bad number, even if those are just short term effects. There''s no telling what will happen on longer dosages, or even if they''ll do to humans what they''ve done to frogs." She sighed, setting her scalpel onto a tray. "That''s the trouble with these things you researchers are making from our blood; none of you imagine what might happen fifty ¡ª no, not even five years from now."


    " ''You researchers,'' Ellie?" he said. "We''re not your enemies. You and the rest of the volunteers, you''re all working <em class="western">with us, so there are no sides to take."


    "I''m on your side, and you''re on mine," was her instant reply, yet she didn''t quite meet his eyes. "As for the rest of the people here, they just need to be careful, that''s all. Civilizations have fallen for less."


    On her side. Did she really think that? No matter how much he fancied her, he hadn''t forgotten that she hadn''t really volunteered for any of this. It loomed over him, holding him back from her. How could he ask anything of this girl when he had done so little for her?


    "Yes, well, that''s why we''re testing these new medicines before we use them on people," he said. "So civilization doesn''t fall."


    His attempt at humor didn''t work for either of them, so he returned to cutting open more frogs. She did the same, with less enthusiasm. They finished their work well into the evening after having dissected the last of their dearly departed amphibians, then trudged off into the changing room.


    The protective attire they were required to wear had been modeled after what surgeons and nurses wore in operating theaters, which necessitated a place to change in and out of such things. In their case, it was a small changing room located at the entrance of the Fifth Laboratory. Several female researchers had been added to the staff of the first story since he had arrived to Wickerwill, requiring that all changing rooms be divided for the use of men and women. Any time Eleanor had to work in one of the wet labs previously, she had to change solely by herself without anyone being in the lab. Before being divided, the changing rooms had offered little protection from prying eyes. Anyone could''ve opened the door.


    When Halston left his changing room, he found Eleanor ready for him in the narrow waiting area. She gave her hair a sniff, then shuddered. "Frogs," she said. "I smell like frogs. This is horrible."


    "If it''s any consolation, I can''t smell a thing."


    She headed out the door first; it led directly into the hallway. "That''s because you smell like frogs, too."


    "A bath is in order, then."


    "Oh, I never like sharing my bathtub."


    He jumped, alarmed. "I hadn''t meant ¡ª that is, I hadn''t been implying that you should, that we should ¡ª"


    She drifted into him, weaving her hand into his. No one else would be in the main office, not at this hour, so they had no reason to fear being seen, but her touch brought him to a standstill, regardless. "You''re wonderful when you''re flustered," she said, "even if you smell like frogs."


    Onto tiptoes she went, and he leant down to meet her. She kissed him until he was dizzy from the touch of her. Then, as always, she ran off before things between them could grow more dangerous than they had already become. As the lift carried them to the ground floor, she clung to him for another kiss, then whispered against his cheek about how her room had a private bath attached to it.


    It was with tremendous regret that he turned down the invitation. When she asked him why, he told her that he wished to marry her.


    "We might not have the chance for that," she said


    His heart rose, because she hadn''t objected to his rather unromantic proposal. "We''ll be married," he said. "You''ll see."


    She smiled fondly at him, in the way that a mother might have smiled at a child who still believed in fairies in the bottom of the garden. Her doubt made him more determined than anything else to do right by her. When they left this place, they could follow their hearts.


    * * *


    In the days that came, they said silly things on their breaks together. "I''d like to see the Alps one summer," or, "I want to visit the Pacific Ocean," or, "It''d be lovely to stroll under cherry trees in the spring."


    If they had been anywhere else in the world, all of those sentences would have ended "with you." Instead, they had to imply them by look alone. It was a difficult thing to do when you wanted to wed a girl, or she you. Their closeness only grew more intense as the weather cooled. The staff would be allowed to go home for the holidays. Several of the volunteers, Eleanor included, didn''t bother signing the forms to let them leave. In her case, she <em class="western">couldn''t, which he hadn''t known.


    "You can''t be serious," Halston said to her, over drinks in the tea room.


    "I am," she said, upon which she explained that she couldn''t even go into any nearby villages, reminding him again that she wasn''t truly a volunteer. The most she had done was walk the grounds outside Wickerwill, something she could do little of in this season.


    Halston sought his uncle out at once. "She''s leaving."


    Archie stood outside his office, looking out at the people working in the main room, though not at anyone in particular. The only one he didn''t look at was his nephew. "We both know that shan''t happen."


    "If she''s not a prisoner, then she should be able to at least visit one of the villages." If she could be allowed that, it would make taking her away from this place that much simpler to do.


    The word <em class="western">prisoner drew their colleagues'' attention. "The work she''s doing here is too important for that," Archie said. "Besides, we can''t risk her being seen."


    "What risk? She''s never tried running away, and she''s never hurt anyone."


    The glare Archie gave him would have made another man give up. But his uncle knew better, so he doled out a meager explanation. "Those of us who aren''t besotted fools know that letting her leave this estate is an immeasurable danger."


    <em class="western">Besotted also drew attention, much to Halston''s dismay. A few snickers joined the looks as well. He hadn''t done as good a job of hiding his affection for Eleanor as he''d supposed. Since he was already found out, there was little danger in being direct. "To whom?" he said. "To her? The only danger she''s in is by staying here, in a place she''s forced to be."


    That wiped the smirks off dozens of faces.


    Archie folded his arms. "Once again, you''ve failed to see the larger picture."


    "Why don''t you enlighten me?"


    "Her power is unlike anything this department has encountered," Archie said. "You don''t know that because you haven''t bothered to learn of it''s history. Few of you have done." Several researchers sunk into their chairs, or occupied themselves with work that hadn''t been important mere seconds ago. "Even fewer of you even know that this place has a name. It''s not official, of course; nothing about us is. But we''re called the Cloakroom, for this all started in an office nearly the size of one." He smiled thinly. "It''s also a nickname for Churchill''s alleged birthplace."


    Halston said, "That doesn''t have anything to do with what we''re talking about."


    "History is important, especially when you''re in the midst of it." Archie leant against the wall of his office. "For as long as mankind has existed, it has sought power. The power of Miss Easton could change the face of this war, not to mention the fate of this world."


    The large room had quieted as people listened to Archie speak; of them, only Eleanor kept working, as if she had heard such a speech before. Perhaps she had done.


    "Imagine, if you can do so, an army of soldiers with the ability to heal themselves," Archie said. "But shall those soldiers be ours, or Hitler''s?" He paused. "That is what is at risk if she is let out of our sight."


    A bitter look passed over her face.


    "Is that what you''ve told Churchill?" Halston said.


    Archie returned to looking at those in the main office, which set everyone to work again.


    "So, you haven''t told him." Halston should''ve known; it was another of Eleanor''s truths coming to light. "What would happen if he learnt of it?"


    This time when Archie smiled, it was much colder. "Miss Easton isn''t here, officially," he said, "so if someone were to tell the old hussar that she were, no one would find a trace of her having been here. She''d simply ... disappear."


    The last of any trust or admiration Halston had for his uncle ¡ª the barest of threads remaining ¡ª now snapped. Madmen had an excuse for any awful things they might do, but Archie was perfectly sane, and completely convinced of what he was saying.


    "People would say something," Halston said. "They would remember her."


    "The people working here stand for this country," Archie said. "You''ve let yourself forget that, for some strange reason." His gaze landed on Eleanor for a brief moment. "I suggest that you remember your loyalties ¡ª immediately."


    In Archie''s vocabulary, suggestions were always orders. Halston had no power to contradict them. He had no power at all. None to free Eleanor, none to protect her. They had no chance of running away, not now when everyone was against them. She had understood that long before he had done the same. How useless she must think him. Worse than useless. A man should protect his girl, and yet he could do nothing.


    He left the main office, heading into the reference library. He checked every foot of it to make sure that no one was around, then sank into the closest chair. The door opened and closed a few minutes after he had shut himself up in the quiet.


    A hand alighted onto his shoulder, frail as a bird.


    Halston leant over the table, trying to free himself from her touch. He didn''t deserve anything that she could give him. Her fingers hung on gently. "I don''t know how you can stand to look at me," he said. "I can''t do anything for you, and the bastard keeping you locked up here, he''s my uncle. The sight of me must make you sick."


    "I''m not the only one he''s threatened in this room."


    How could she have known that?


    "It''s in the way you act around him," she said, picking up on the thing he hadn''t asked, as always. "But it''s all right. I have a plan. We''re going to escape."

 Interlude: Nocturne 5

    The plan would take time, but time had ever been a finite resource. They had less of it now that a full year had passed, trading one autumn for another. Their goal of escape remained evergreen no matter the season. In the name of that goal, they had done many things. One of the most important had been Halston getting Eleanor''s privileges upgraded, which had led them to where they were now, in one of the back pastures on a hunt.


    This particular pasture was near a narrow wood, and the traces of their quarry led into the trees. She kept to his right, as always, the side that he could see her out of. Like him, she had a newer Lee-Enfield rifle pointed down at the fallow field they were steadily coursing over. Like him, she also had an M1911 holstered under her unbuttoned coat. One weapon for distance, and another for close quarters. Those in the Special Operations Executive swore by the Colts, so Archie had requisitioned some in the name of training his people. A few of those allowed to train were like Eleanor ¡ª special.


    Although her short stature had made the handling of most weapons rather awkward for her, she had learnt to get by. Halston had done the same; his one good eye meant some trouble with iron sights, but he had adapted to his situation as best could be managed. Sandhurst had taught him invaluable things, as had his short time in the Army. Not all of his fellow countrymen had been lucky enough to have such training. If the Jerries ever touched British land, every man, woman, and child here would be swept up in the wave of battle that followed. War wouldn''t spare the weak or infirm.


    Self-protection had become vitally important to those of the Cloakroom for another reason, though: those with secrets had to fight to keep them. Fighting was precisely what Halston and Eleanor were learning to do right now.


    The mock battles he had fought before were nothing compared to the ones he had here. For one thing, he shot at living targets, like the one he had just sighted darting through the trees. Both he and Eleanor raised their rifles, though she was a touch slower with hers, and they traced the man in grey as he darted into the shadows.


    Eleanor muttered something that might have been rather foul if Halston had heard it fully.


    He gave a grin between breaths. Unlike some of the other men, her interest in firearms had never dismayed him. Most girls he had known had either found guns distasteful, or had been encouraged to do so. She had never once hesitated around weapons ¡ª she had mentioned that her father was fond of hunting and skeet shooting, the latter of which sounded like a distant cousin to sporting clays. Her familiarity with firearms was more than could be said for some of the other researchers.


    The two of them had finally penetrated the edge of the wood. Birds burst through boughs above, wings whirring. Cloudy sunlight barely shone through the trees, and the deep shadows furthered the chill in crisp air that smelled of dark decay. They avoided fallen branches as they moved in; stepping on those would be as good as calling out their positions.


    Grey flashed ahead, and Halston took aim. The target disappeared between two massive boles. This time, Halston was the one muttering foul things, if only in his head. Neither of them could risk talking now, so they didn''t. This was their twenty-fifth hunt, and the twelfth that they had done alone together. Several of the group hunts had been held during overnight camps. Those had been during the late spring and early summer when the moon had been high and full, as torches or firelight would make the estate a target for the <em class="western">Luftwaffe. The daylight hunts like this were his favorite, for he got to be by her side with little chance of anyone watching. The target didn''t count.


    Eleanor gave him several hand signals:


    <em class="western">Ahead, to the left<em class="western">, under cover.


    The target had sought a poor shelter below a half-fallen tree. Its roots emerged out of the earth like the tentacles of some weird sea creature trying desperately to grasp the sea, whilst its upper half hung on the sagging branches of its neighbors. Halston had gone beneath it only once, and the cracks and groans of the tree had sounded a warning of doom to him then.


    She threw him another signal. <em class="western">I''ll cover.


    The kill was being offered to him. Only fair. She had got one half an hour before, and he desperately needed to shoot something after a long and tiresome week. He signaled back his acceptance, then circled round to the other side of the tree. His progress slowed as he dipped into a crouching walk. He glanced back as he''d been taught to do ¡ª only a fool never checked the position of his partner. However well matched they might be didn''t matter more than safety. She crept towards the back of the tree, no doubt intending to watch the target''s only way out to the right.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    He glanced back a second time before he reached the opening on the left side. A few more steps would reveal him to the target. He signaled for a distraction.


    She provided one, pitching a rock into a clump of leaves.


    The target exploded into the open in front of Halston.


    Mouth dry, heart pounding, he aimed again. Followed the target with his sights. Picked the man''s likeliest path. Aimed ahead. Shoved the bolt forward, then down. Took a steadying breath. Squeezed the trigger. Fired.


    The man in grey staggered. He stretched to his full height, and threw his head back to face the sky. Then he collapsed soundlessly to the earth.


    Halston hurried over. He might need to fire a second time. The man turned at his approach, bloody lips whispering something that couldn''t be heard. His body dissolved into a thousand points of light that fell and drifted like dust motes. Halston turned to Eleanor. She was still in the same spot by the tree, only now she was ejecting live rounds from her Lee-Enfield, shoving the bullets into her coat pocket.


    He did the same, then dry fired at the ground once, twice, thrice. One could never be too safe regarding firearms. When certain the rifle had been emptied, he leant it against the tree. Removing his wax earplugs, he spoke. "Always makes me feel the coward, shooting him through the back."


    Having no earplugs to remove, she strolled over to him; any damage that occurred to her ears would reverse itself seconds later. Her body seemed to consider such a thing a minor inconvenience, so she rarely needed to eat very soon afterward. "Sometimes the coward''s shot is the only one you can take," she said, setting her rifle next to his. "Besides, Paxton doesn''t mind ¡ª or at least his illusions don''t."


    "Spoken like a true veteran, darling." He circled his arms around her. "That part about the coward''s shot, not the rest."


    She settled against his chest, embracing him back. "A true veteran? You might become exactly that if this war goes on long enough."


    "The Allies would be in rather dire straits if they had to put a half-blind man on the front lines. By that point, they might make you go with me. And a good little soldier you''d make, too."


    Her face tilted up to him, stippled by sunlight and shadows. She said nothing, only stared, as if she were trying to memorize every line and curve of his face. Her fingers inscribed idle shapes on his back through his clothes, and he brought up a hand to tease the ends of her hair, which she''d done up in the victory rolls that many women seemed to be wearing of late. He''d seen her hair in its natural straightness only once, after a rain shower had caught them unaware during a spring hunt, and he''d longed to run his hands through it then.


    She leant on tiptoes towards him. "I was going to be a nurse, not a soldier."


    "A nurse? Why in heaven''s name should an heiress want to be a nurse?"


    "For the war." A little higher she went now. "And I''d never been one before, as far as I remember."


    Hearing of her past always got his attention, but she had never mentioned her reasoning for being here. He stopped playing with her hair. "That''s why you came to Britain? To help in the war?" he said. "It wasn''t even yours when you got here."


    "I''d liked the last big war, so I thought I might like this one, too."


    He laughed, then kissed her forehead. "My sweetheart''s mad for history."


    "Oh, I''m always mad for things I''m part of."


    He gathered her hair into his hand, crushing it as he cupped the back of her skull. It''d be mussed when they were through, but she could claim she fell when they got back to Wickerwill. She always did. "Is that so?" he said.


    "It''s why I''m mad for you," she said, and kissed his chin.


    That was all she did to him, and thank the stars for that. They couldn''t risk much else. Not now, not yet. After they were free of this place. <em class="western">Only after.


    The two of them broke apart, then carried their guns with them to the country house. Neither of them spoke, for they both enjoyed the silence that only a good companion could bring. But this silence was also one that made of for the lack of it that would greet them once the rooms of Wickerwill closed around them.


    Her privileges had not come without cost.


    The biggest price had been that of trust. Without it, they could not escape. In the name of trust, both Halston and Eleanor had learnt to ignore the darker things that had begun in the Cloakroom. No, it was more accurate to say that those things had come into the light. It was a certainty that they had existed for a long time, those terrible things, but only now had those responsible felt safe in doing them openly.


    And to gain trust, Halston and Eleanor had to turn aside and let those cruel experiments happen.


    Those very experiments had added headstones to the cemetery of the estate''s old churchyard, which they passed by on their way through the pasture. Halston didn''t let his gaze linger on the plain, wooden coffin sitting beside the half-dug grave. There was no point in lingering ¡ª unless he could unmake the past, he could not unmake the dead.


    All he did was stiffen his shoulders as they passed by the graves, some very old and some very new. She touched his wrist, reminding him that they could say nothing, do nothing. Not now, not yet. That didn''t keep his guilt at bay. His complicity. He was letting this go on, all because he had his own neck in the noose. Some brave soldier he would''ve made. A true officer and a gentleman he was, ducking down as the bullets burned by.


    "It''s wrong," he said, when the ringing of the shovels on hard-packed dirt and the swearing of the gravediggers was behind them. "It''s wrong, it''s wrong, it''s <em class="western">wrong."


    Her fingers sought his wrist again, and this time slipped down to weave with his. "We can''t make things right," she said, "but we can make them even."


    The darkness of her voice promised dark things. He couldn''t find it in himself to protest them. What was reaped must be sown, and the twisted seeds that had been cast in the earth of this place would bear terrible fruit.