by Vicki Keire
She turned back, arms loaded with clothes, and frowned at my wrinkled jeans. “I brought double-chocolate banana bread. Mr. Peppers just took it out of the pan. It’s still hot.” She handed me my favorite hoodie and two socks that didn't match. “I think that qualifies as grounds for a home invasion.”
I held up my as-yet unbandaged hand. “It’s a two woman job. Help me?”
“It looks better,” she finally said after snapping the last clip in place.
“It is.” In the kitchen, I reached for a stack of plates with my left hand, but Logan’s long arm shot up and restrained me. His dark green Adidas tracksuit pinned me to the sink.
“Hey, Amberlyn.” I felt the deep rumble of his voice against my back. “You giving Cas a ride?”
“You’ve got your oncologist's appointment today,” I said, dodging neatly around him to put the juice out. “You’re going to need the car.”
He nodded. His baseball cap matched his tracksuit, pulled down low enough to hide both his hollow eyes and his completely bald head. “You just always walk everywhere. Andreas is pretty close.”
“It’s finally turned cold enough that she’s consented to ride in the hippie car,” Amberlyn smirked, carving neat slices of breakfast bread so dark and moist it was more like cake.
I actually growled. “You wish it was a hippie car. I hate to break it to you, but anything built this millennia doesn’t qualify. And if you keep calling it that, I will walk, no matter how cold it is.”
Logan just shook his head. He was used to our bickering. He nodded at my hand. “How are you going to manage today with that?”
“School’s easy, actually.” I popped the corner of Mr. Pepper’s best-selling breakfast bread in my mouth and stifled a moan of ecstasy. “Art history is straight lecture. Then we have ceramics, and I’m so terrible in there being left-handed might actually be an improvement.” I ate more bread. “How did you get this fresh, Amberlyn? He usually sells out at dawn, or something.”
She fiddled with her coffee cup. “He held one back for you.”
I choked. “What?”
“That’s what I said.” Logan sat motionless, watching me intently. Amberlyn’s golden-green eyes pleaded with me to understand. “I think he was worried about you, after last night. It’s sweet, really,” she tried to reassure me, but I exploded out of my chair.
I mentally filled in her unspoken commentary: He's worried because the whole town heard you had a screaming nervous breakdown and had to be carried off the square, unconscious and hurt.
“What? How the hell did Mr. Peppers know about that? Who else knows?” When Logan didn’t meet my eyes, I sat back down with a defeated plop. “Maybe I better rephrase that. Who else doesn’t know?”
“Mr. Markov called while you were in the bath,” my brother said carefully. I noticed he hadn’t touched his breakfast. Not good. “He said to call if you needed more time.”
“Oh. My. God.” I let my head flop forward into my waiting arms. “This is horrible. I’m supposed to work this afternoon. I need my job. I even like my job. Most of the time.”
“He didn’t fire you, Caspia.” Cold fingers brushed my hair back from my forehead. “He just wondered if… well.” The fingers withdrew. I sat up and stared at Logan, who looked at Amberlyn. “We were talking and we think you’ve been pushing yourself too hard. We think… I think you should slow down.”
“This is about last night,” I accused. No one contradicted me. I thought fast and hard. They were partially right. I had, after all, come to the same conclusion before Ethan approached me and scared the hell out of me. Yes, I had been working myself a bit too hard. So I could admit that much. But the rest of it? No way. If they already thought I was unbalanced, I could only imagine what would happen if I tried to tell them about prophetic drawings and the man who’d helped me last night who could do impossible things and had stepped out of one. I looked at their worried faces, at my brother who only toyed with a slice of something he would have eaten a whole loaf of this time last year, and made a decision.
“You’re absolutely right,” I announced, scooting back up to the table and helping myself to another slice of double-chocolate banana bread. I ignored their shocked expressions with satisfaction. “I thought about it myself. I’ve been pushing myself so hard so I won’t have time to think about… unpleasant… things.” I looked at Logan. “And that has to stop. It’s not going to change anything. It just means we have less time together.” He nodded at me in grim shock. “So I’ll talk to Markov. I don’t want to make any radical changes. It’s not a crisis situation, or anything. I’d like to finish out my schedule for the week, since it’s already made and I don’t want to mess up anyone else’s. But I will see about reducing my hours so that we can have so more time together. Since I made some extra money this month, I can afford to take some time before the holidays.” I couldn’t help myself. I threw my arms around Logan’s neck and squeezed. He squeezed back.
“We could go to the orchard together,” he said into my hair. “The Parsons opened up about a month ago.”
“And buy apples and cider, and come back here and watch scary movies all night long,” Amberlyn added, her voice tight.
“Like we do every year.” I squeezed Logan once more, tightly, before I reluctantly let him go. I tried to ignore the sensation that time was running out as we hurried through breakfast and I gathered my things for school. I was halfway down the stairs when I turned on my heel. “Hey. I forgot something. Go on ahead; I won’t be a minute.”
Logan sat on the couch, a purring Abigail in his lap. I balanced uneasily on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. “I will skip all my classes and work too if you want me to go to that appointment with you,” I said. He smiled into Abigail’s satisfied face.
“You hate doctor’s offices,” he said. “You’ve had a rough twenty four hours, Cas. You've been right beside me for this whole thing. Missing one doctor's visit isn't going to hurt.” He gave a startled little laugh when Abigail put her paws on his chest and started to give him a bath, cat style, starting with the tip of his nose. “I know you’d go, and I appreciate it. But I’d rather you have a normal day. You help me that way, by being steady and reminding me there’s a normal world that isn’t centered on me being sick.” He deflected further bathing maneuvers with one hand and took my fingers with his other. “I don’t know if I’ve ever thanked you for that, Caspia. For being steady and keeping me anchored to reality. Without you, I don’t know where I’d be.”
I swallowed hard. He was counting on me to keep him anchored to reality? Oh, hell. “It’s what sisters do,” I told him solemnly. “Or at least, we try,” I amended. Below us, Amberlyn honked her late-model VW Bug. “I’ll see you right after Ceramics, aka Slime-a-ramics, before work, ok?”
I left him laughing on the couch, Ethan’s jacket draped over one of my arms. “It offers some protection against the cold and… other things...” he’d said. The shiver that took me when I slipped it on had nothing to do with the chill October wind that welcomed me when my feet hit the sidewalk. Instead, I shivered as I wondered what those ‘other things’ might be, in anticipation and fear of finding out, and in stubborn rejection of that tiny voice that hadn’t left me, the one still reminding me that my brother was too fragile. The winter will take him, the winter will take him.
“Like hell,” I announced as I sprinted to Amberlyn’s car, pulling Ethan’s jacket closer.
***
“What are you, like, my shadow now?”
I balanced a pile of fabric, including a heavier than it looked leather jacket, an extra sweater my landlord Mr. Moore had just shoved at me, and my work apron on one forearm while I made a fist with my other hand and jammed it against my hip. I tried to look fierce as a tall, dark-clad figure uncoiled itself from the alley wall that ran perpendicular to my apartment.
“I told you I would see you again.” In the full afternoon light, he looked almost disappointingly normal. I remembered just
a flash of the dreams he’d starred in last night and ducked my head to hide a blush. Today, his blue-green eyes sparkled with amusement rather than some strange inner light. His mouth twisted slightly at one corner, as if holding back his full smile. He was dressed for the weather like any other citizen of Whitfield; jeans this time, paired with a thick black sweater. “You’ve been busy all day. I thought I might walk you to work.”
“Oh.” My mouth stayed in that perfect round formation longer than it needed to as his words sunk in. He knew my schedule. He knew the shape of my days. I turned to him, the mouth of the alley dappled with wavering patterns of sunlight and shade. “Do I dare ask how you know that?” I finally ventured.
He slipped up beside me, taking my bandaged hand in his own. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, flipping my hand so it lay palm up in his own. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I’m involved now. I’m not supposed to be, but I am.” His thumb rubbed against my exposed palm in a slow circular motion. That one single exposed piece of skin seemed to grow and expand until it took up a disproportionate amount of my attention, focusing my brain in like a laser on the single point of contact between us. It made it hard to think. I might have protested if it didn’t feel so good.
A chill wind barreled down the alley opening at the same time that a cloud hid all sunlight. A violent, full body shiver brought me back to myself, and I wrenched my hand away from his. “What’s that supposed to mean?" I demanded while I still had the chance to think straight.
He sighed. “Different things.” Somehow, when he was rubbing my palm, he’d managed to take my extra clothes from me. He held them neatly stacked underneath one arm. “Right now, it means getting you to work safely, and on time.” His fingers curled around my upper arm, propelling me down the sidewalk.
I had about a million questions for him. I sorted through them, trying to pick the ones I thought he might actually answer in the short time it took to walk two stores over to The Whitfield Coffee Shop. There was nothing. My questions were all too huge and crazy for the sidewalk in front of work. “I brought your jacket,” I finally said, after several false starts. “It’s cold. You should wear your jacket.”
He laughed. “I’m warm enough.” We had stopped walking again. People moved around us like currents of water flowing around boulders. I dimly registered that we stood in the front window of my job. Rows of tea lights stood sentinel along the windowsill, waiting for me to come in and light them. Ethan’s leather jacket hung from my shoulders, warm and scented like soft cotton sheets pulled straight from the dryer. Impossible, I wanted to protest. Leather didn’t smell like warm cotton. I felt firm warm fingers forcing my chin up, level with his.
“Your eyes are more silver than gray,” he said solemnly, like he was imparting important information. “Did you know?”
“I know what color my eyes are,” I told him, although no one had ever called them silver before. I wanted to break eye contact. I wondered how many of my co-workers were watching, and how badly they were going to tease me for this.
“The jacket is yours,” he said, his fingers sliding under my chin to cup the side of my jaw. “I meant what I said, about protection. Please wear it.”
“You said you thought I was in danger.” The words came out in a hoarse whisper. I leaned into him as I spoke, so closely I could feel the thickly knit cabled texture of his sweater through my thermal long-sleeved shirt. A few more inches, and our faces would touch. “Is that why you’re here? Is my brother in danger, too?”
Both of his hands cradled my face in a grip at once both so fierce and careful his entire body vibrated from the force of it. My injured arm dangled uselessly; the other again held my extra sweater and apron. Once again, I hadn’t seen him move. Once again, his eyes promised a gathering storm, lightening flickering in their depths, tightly leashed. “I hope to keep you both from harm, Caspia Chastain. As much as I am able.” He released me abruptly, and I staggered back, almost hitting the glass. His hand on the small of my back steadied me.
“Oh. Wow. Ok, then.” I closed my eyes and focused on breathing. It wouldn’t do to walk into work hyperventilating at the start of my shift.
“You will manage? With your injury?” he asked, his voice gone cold and formal. I looked up to see he had moved several feet back on the sidewalk. The sudden distance twisted something inside me.
“I always manage,” I said with as much dignity as I could gather. Behind the glass, Mr. Markov stared, sightless and moody, at his eternal game of chess. Nicolas put out new dessert trays while sneaking covert glances my way. His twin sister Amelie had no such pretenses. She just outright stared at Ethan and I, a neatly folded towel in one hand as she leaned against the counter. “Look, thanks for the walk and the jacket and all. Don’t worry about me. I only live two stores away. I’ll be fine,” I said tiredly. I was supposed to close and take the deposit to the bank tonight, but there was no way I was telling him that. I could look after myself just fine. I’d been doing it for years now.
Ethan looked far from pleased. He stuffed his hands into his jeans pocket and kicked at the sidewalk. “I do not doubt your competence. Nevertheless, I will be here to escort you to the bank, should you wish for company.” I felt my jaw drop. How did he know...? I hastily snapped it shut again as he continued. “Should you not wish for company, I understand. I will stay several feet behind you. Either way, if you have questions, I will do my best to answer them.” He glared at a staring Amelie, who paled and began frantically wiping the counter. “After work.”
“After work,” I agreed, slipping into the warm, strongly scented air of my job. I looked at the clock. It was going to be a long six-hour shift.
Chapter Six:
The Lighter Spectrum
I watched as Amelie took her third sip of my cinnamon-dusted, whipped cream topped coffee confection. Her silvered eyelids pulsed against the urge to fly open, but she repressed it; that would be cheating. Her perfect mouth twisted slightly in her pale face, amused, even as her nostrils flared over her steaming cup. Amelie was so pale, with snow-blond hair and ice-gray eyes, that she could only wear pale or sheer shades of make-up. But her features were frozen perfection, and she knew it, and used it to her advantage. Her skin glowed with some kind of outrageously expensive cream imported from her native France. If I looked closely enough, I could see tiny sparkles as she moved in the light. Her eyes and mouth were the only features she could highlight without looking like a circus clown. Today she’d chosen a deep red lipstick, the color of pomegranates, that left generous circles on the white coffee cup as she played her part of our nightly game.
“Vanilla and brown sugar?” she guessed, a flash of pink tongue lapping at her top lip as she waited.
“Oh, come on,” I huffed, a little insulted. “You are so off. Those are summer flavors, Amelie, and you know it. Give me some credit.”
When she smiled in triumph, her deep red lips an almost cruel, curling beauty in her snow queen face, I bit my lip in annoyance. Damn her. “Why, thank you, Caspia, for that vital clue. So it’s seasonal, hmm?” I didn’t answer. “How many guesses do I have left?”
“Just one,” I ground out, crossing my fingers and wishing hard. "You just used your second." We played this game whenever we closed together. The loser had to wash the dishes. Since Mr. Markov never invested in a dishwasher, someone had to wash everything by hand. It was the least popular chore. The dishwasher was almost always the last one out and the closer by default. Tonight I really hoped to go early; I'd tried to devise an unusual drink, hoping to stump Amelie and win my early freedom.
For some reason, I was the one who almost always invented the new coffee drinks. Mr. Markov, the owner and our boss who happened to be dozing beside his chessboard in front of the fire, claimed he had no talent for such things. If we left things up to him, Whitfield’s only coffee shop would serve nothing but plain black coffee. Maybe, if he felt adventurous, he might add decaf, too. I sighed.
“Mmm.” Amelie sipped a
gain, her pink tongue licking up whipped cream. “I’ll have to go with…” I held my breath. I so did not want to be the last one out and then have to go to the bank too. Plus there was the tiny little matter of Ethan, and his slightly puzzling comment about keeping me company, my even more puzzling anticipation that he might actually show, and the extremely high creepiness factor that he knew things he shouldn’t and appeared to be stalking me…
Amelie snapped her perfectly manicured fingers in my face. “Hello? Pretending to be in a coma won’t save you. It has to be pumpkin.” She gave me a wintry smile that matched the growing unease in the pit of my stomach and cradled her drink. “Admit it, Caspia, so I can finish up and go home.”
“Pumpkin spice, actually,” I told her, slumping back against a bare expanse of green marble countertop in defeat. “But close enough.”
She finished off what was left in her cup in one quick, unladylike gulp. “It really is quite good. What are you going to call it?”
“Pumpkin spice?” I said dully, feeling about as imaginative as Mr. Markov. My entire body went limp as the weight of my day pressed down on me. I looked out the storefront windows, every one of them lit up with tea lights across the sill, at the darkness lurking just beyond and tried to imagine what waited for me out there. Take the deposit to the bank in the dark, possibly accompanied by a strangely attractive stalker person heralding impending doom, then home to a dying brother and a bedroom that had been secretly robbed of a worthless but prophetic homework assignment. I shivered violently before I could stop myself. Was I forgetting anything?
Dying. Brother.
The winter will take him.
Amelie was beside me almost instantly, her slim, cool, garnet-tipped fingers stroking my hair, pulling it loose from the clip it had half-escaped anyway. “Hey there,” she said softly, her nails gently raking my scalp before working their way down the tangled mass of my fine dark hair like a makeshift comb. I stared down at her, into eyes that seemed pale, jeweled versions of my own: diamond against steel. She moved to take my hands in hers, in some kind of comforting gesture, but touched my bandaged hand and flinched. “Oh, Caspia, I forgot,” she exhaled. I saw pity in her diamond, ice queen eyes. She wrapped herself around me in a tight hug. I was so surprised I froze. Amelie and her twin, Nicolas, were famously aloof when it came to personal space. The strength of her hold surprised me, as did her cool skin and faint, cloying perfume, like dying roses. She murmured to me in French, her native language, and even though I didn’t understand the meaning of her words, they comforted me nonetheless. “Je suis un idiot. Vous souffrez en douleur. Vous ne me laissez pas vous aider, bien que je sois votre ami. Que est-ce que je pense?”