by Eliza Grace
This is it.
The end of me.
I look down at my hands, seeing the wrinkles take hold, seeing the nourished skin begin to go ashen. I hang my head, fearful Jenissa will come back to me and see me as I truly am. It’s a silly thing to worry over, silly in terms of facing the end of my eternity. Dehydrated. Tired. Spent. I’m not ready for this moment. I’m not ready to be gone from this world. I’ve only begun to live again.
I gasp as the magic launches into me with unexpected force. The little witch has accomplished her task. If she’d realized how very close she’d been to winning... if she’d only held onto the magic a moment longer... After I’ve warned her, she’s continued to try to thwart me. I have already sent her precious Hoyt into the Neverwhere. He will not survive Elisabeth. I know it. There will be no human sympathy left in her, after so long in the afterlife. She will do to him what she did to me. She will perhaps do worse. I relish the thought.
I call Toady to me. He cannot resist the pull of the master he has blood-oathed himself to. He appears, a reedy shimmer of himself. He is the Toady of this time, but I have already caught him in the spell that will send him days backwards.
And he will warn the witch once more.
He will warn her and he will tell her that I have already made good on my promise to hurt those she loved.
“Do not tell her who. Let her wonder if it is the boy or her Aunt.” I think to the man, the glowing book clutched in his hand. I almost laugh at how easy it had been, to feed the boy the vision of what was happening in the woods to his precious Tilda. So easy, to give him the extra push into Elisabeth’s particular afterlife.
So. Easy. My only wish is that I could see into that place, see how he fairs in the Neverwhere.
Date With An Angel
-Jen-
Ten days after Tilda’s disappearance
I SHOULDN’T HAVE SAID yes to a date with Archie, but I had.
I am sitting in my room, my clothes still wet with the purple and yellow paints I’ve been using in the studio. I wanted to paint longer, to finish what I was working on, but I didn’t have time. Painting was such a wonderful distraction from everything. From even the prospect of the date. Despite how much I wanted to go out with Archie, it felt wrong.
Normally, I’d labor over what to wear. My typical uniform of paint-splattered oversized shirts, jeans, and overalls, wasn’t exactly date attire. How could I worry over clothes, though? With Tilda still missing... and, instead of doing more to look for her, I was about to go out with a guy I liked. Where was she right now? What was she doing? Tired, maybe. Hungry, maybe. Scared.
She was probably scared right now.
I’ve picked up my phone again, for maybe the millionth time, and I’m once again debating whether or not to cancel. It’s the right thing to do. At least, I believe it is. Archie’s probably on his way now, though. I’ve waited too long, probably.
Lord, Jen. Justify much?
I drop the phone onto the bed again and turn back to the open armoire, staring at all of my clothing like an angst-suffering teen pining for a mall trip. The farm house had period-correct, teensy closets, so the additional clothes storage was a must. I sort of liked that though, having the impressive-looking clothes storage looming over me in the room. It felt Victorian in a way, a step away from steamer trunks and long distance carriage travel. “Not pink.” I push aside a blouse I’ve hated from the minute I bought it, but had been too embarrassed to return it seconds after swiping my card. “Not blue either. Hmm. Green?” I pull out a Kelly green top, one with a sort of mock collar and these little gold fabric buttons that look like infinity symbols. “And a pair of jeans that don’t have paint on them,” I grumble, knowing finding an unstained pair of pants is going to be like finding the proverbial needle in an abnormally, obscenely large hay stack.
Not going to happen.
So I settle on one of the only skirts I own- a dowdy linen thing in navy blue with so many pleats it would make a grandma’s heart flutter. And a pair flats- gold ones, to go with the buttons on the blouse. I dress fast, both excitement and guilt speeding my movements. Done, I look at myself in the mirror. My hair’s a mess, piled atop my head in a style that defies description. My face is free of makeup, but my skin is having the goodness to be blemish free so I don’t feel like bothering. Maybe my eyes though... I lean forwards towards the mirror, spotting a slash of bright yellow across my right ear lobe.
I jump at the sound of a fist rapping on the back door. Without me even telling him, Archie’s come to the back of the house. I smile at that, and at the fact that I really do like him, more than I’ve liked anyone in a long time. Tilda used to joke about me and Taylor and, I’ll admit, I had a ‘few butterflies in my stomach’ moments, but I knew, truthfully, that Taylor wasn’t my match. Not by a long shot. And I was too old to date around and play games. I simply didn’t have the stomach for it now.
Besides, Archie isn’t butterflies. He’s... He’s the way holding a hot, fresh cup of coffee feels first thing in the morning, when all you want to do is crawl back into bed and sleep a little longer.
I rush to the kitchen door, wishing I’d thought to light a candle or spray freshener around the house because the smell of burnt toast from breakfast is still clinging to everything. Another knock sounds and my sense of excitement builds. Coming into the kitchen, I nearly fall over the broom I’d left leaning against the counter. It crashes to the ground loudly and I curse at myself for being so careless. My first attempt at picking up the cleaning utensil is comical. I fall forward, stepping on the skirt and losing my footing, and, instead of picking up the broom, I end up on the ground beside it. I curse again, and then shout to Archie. “Two seconds! Sorry!” I hit my palms on the floor and curse again. “God, I’m so graceful,” I mutter, irritated with myself.
When I’m standing again, and so is the broom, I wrap my fingers around the door knob, a smile sprouts unbidden across my face. I can’t fight it; I can’t simmer down the joy of it. I like Archie more than I’ve even admitted mentally. And I want this date to go tremendously well. Maybe if it does, the guilt I feel will be worth it. I turn the knob and fumble to unlock the door. It defies me though, seeming to swell in place and stick in the frame. “This silly door!” I shout again. “Sorry, Archie!” I find it odd when Archie doesn’t respond.
Finally, the door opens. I say ‘hi’ before I’ve even opened it enough to see Archie’s face.
When the door is fully open, my smile falters. It isn’t Archie, but the man I’d spoken with at the café two days ago. It actually takes me a moment to know who he is. Admittedly, I did not look very closely at the man who purchased me a fresh coffee. And, afterwards, I’d been speaking with Archie. Archie, who’d asked me out on a date. And any image of that other man had faded away. But here he is again.
“Mr. Hopkins, what a nice surprise... can I help you?” I do a poor job of making my voice sound pleased.
“It’s nice to see you again also, Ms. Clarke. I’m afraid my car has broken down about a mile from your driveway though. I honestly had no idea this was your home, but what lovely happenstance.”
There was something about the way he said the last sentence that smacked of a lie, but I nodded, forcing my smile wider. “It is a nice coincidence, isn’t it? I’m afraid I don’t know much about cars, though, if that’s why you’re knocking.”
“No, no. I wouldn’t know the first thing about working on my car either. I was hoping to use your phone to call a...” he pauses, as if the word’s escaped him.
“A tow?” I provide, feeling an odd hesitation in the pit of my stomach. I’ve no idea why I feel this way. This town, my home, it has always been so very safe.
“Yes, a tow,” He sighs out, as if grateful for my help. “I’m sorry. It’s rather been one of those days, if you know what I mean.”
That feeling in my belly diminishes slightly. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean. Is your cell phone dead?” I realize it sounds a tad acc
usatory when I ask, but everyone has a mobile nowadays. There’s rarely an occasion to walk miles to knock on a relative strangers door for assistance.
He blushes a little, looking embarrassed. “No cell phone. Though, this might convince me to change that in the future.”
“I’m not a huge fan of cell phones either, but they’re an evil necessity in this day and age. Everyone needs to stay connected, at all times.”
“I find that notion oppressive. I’d much rather live in the wild without a soul around, keeping company with a stack of good books and a few bottles of wine.” He slides his hands into his pockets and rocks back on the balls of his feet casually. “I don’t see how anyone can see the beauty of the world with their face glued to a screen all of the time. Can’t walk two feet in town without slamming into someone distracted by this or that.”
“That’s absolutely true. Well, come in. Phone’s right in there.” I point at my studio door, just past the kitchen. “I’m afraid it’s not fancy and cordless, but it works.”
“No worries. I much prefer older items. Like this.” He pulls out a pocket watch. An honest-to-god pocket watch. “It keeps time just as well as any newfangled contraption, but it also holds something else. An appealing antiquity.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it.” I try and smile, act interested, but part of me wants to lean out of the still-open door and see if I can spy Archie’s car coming down the drive. “I don’t mean to rush you, Mr. Hopkins, but someone will be here soon to pick me up.”
“Oh, my apologies!” He says quickly, sort of tipping his head as if he’s wearing a fedora. “I often let my mouth run adrift.”
“It’s no problem. Really.” I worry I’ve been brusque and offensive. “It’s just...” I bite my lower lip and then let the words rush out, “I’ve not been on a date with anyone in a really long time and I’m absolutely, totally, nauseatingly nervous. And on top of that is guilt. Loads of guilt because my beautiful niece is still out there somewhere, maybe suffering. And I’m going on a date. A date!” I cross my arms over my body and sigh heavily. “I shouldn’t be doing anything other than trying to find Tilda.
“You can’t stop living your life simply because something has gone wrong, as horrible as that something might be. Life is about forward motion, not stagnation. Believe me,” he smiles softly, his hand resting on the door frame leading into my studio, “I’ve lived frozen in one spot for a long, long time. The body and soul need freedom.”
I don’t say anything in response, but continue to watch the studio entrance for a while, after he’s disappeared. I hear him dialing and speaking to someone. Not once do I sneak a peek out at my driveway or even close the door to block out the warm air warring with the air conditioner, which is sputtering under the strain of keeping the house as cold as I want it. Something has me transfixed. It is as if I am now frozen, after listening to this man’s warning about continuing life and not staying in one spot.
It’s a jarring sensation, to not be able to move and function.
When he returns, I am free again. My eyes meet his and there’s a knowing in his gaze that sparks butterflies. So many butterflies.
A circus of them, flying crazily about in my stomach.
It makes me forget what my fingers feel like wrapped around a warm cup of coffee. It makes me, oddly, forget what Archie looks like for a moment.
A happy, brief honking sounds outside the house then. I come back to life. Mr. Hopkins is stood right in front of me, our noses nearly pressing. I stumble backwards. “Um, sorry,” I apologize, even though I’m not sure what has happened or if I am the one who brought our bodies so close together. “My date’s here. Were you able to get a tow?”
He nods slowly, his face holding the shallowest hint of smoldering anger. “Yes. It will take perhaps an hour for them to arrive. I’ll wait with my car. Thank you very much for the use of your phone.”
“It wasn’t a problem,” I stutter out, now on the porch and half-turned to give Archie a brief wave. I still had to go back in for my purse, but I didn’t want to go back whilst Mr. Hopkins was still here. I didn’t want to be in the confined space with him again. “I’m sure Archie would drive you back to your car. You said it was a mile away? Driving would be a lot faster.”
“No, I enjoy walking.” The anger has faded, but he still looks obviously unhappy.
“Oh, okay.”
Archie’s gotten out of his car now. It’s a dark green sedan with two doors and a sporty slope to the rear. An older jaguar, I think, but I can’t see the hood ornament well. “Everything okay, Jen?” Archie’s smiling at us as he approaches, but he’s also wearing his ‘cop’ face.
“Yeah. It’s fine. I met this gentleman in the café the other day and his car actually chose to break down not too far from the house. He just needed to call a tow. Did you pass his car on the drive here?” I stiffen as Mr. Hopkins stiffens, like the mention of the car wasn’t something he was expecting.
“No,” Archie says slowly, “what’s the color and make?”
“It’s a convertible. I couldn’t tell you the make of a car if my life depended on it though.” Mr. Hopkins smiles and his voice is as casual as fruity punch at a summer barbeque.
“What direction were you coming?”
I want to stop Archie from asking twenty questions, but I’m curious too. I find it strange that his car would break down here, so close to where I live.
Matthew points in the direction opposite of town. “Just out for a drive to clear my head. I tend not to pay attention to where I’m going. I suppose that’s not intelligent, given that I don’t have a navigation system or even a cell phone.”
“Ah,” Archie nods, “I came the other way, from town. The local towing service is really good around here. They’ll probably beat you to the car if you’ve already called them.” It’s a dismissal, at least that’s what it sounds like. I wonder if Archie is uneasy around this man too.
“I offered for you to drive him out, Archie,” I said quickly, maybe so we don’t seem rude and like we’re kicking Mr. Hopkins out. We aren’t being rude of course. I’ve invited him into my home, let him use the phone. Still though, there is something that makes me want this man to linger. But, then again, I also don’t.
“I don’t think we’ve been together long enough for you to volunteer me for things,” Archie is teasing me, twinkle in his eyes. And there it is again, that wonderful sensation of warm coffee first thing in the morning.
“Sorry,” I blush, “I just need to finish getting ready and grab my purse. I could drive him too though.”
“You know I was kidding around.” His smile is like butter melting on fresh toast.
“I don’t need a ride.” Mr. Hopkins’ voice was civil, but not playful. The smoldering anger was back. I didn’t understand that. He barely knows me. He doesn’t know Archie. What could be making him unhappy.
My head hurts, I realize, standing there on the porch in the sun so close to Mr. Hopkins. I try to shuffle my feet and I am once more frozen. Mr. Hopkins is staring at me. Staring into me.
“Jen, you okay?” Archie’s moved up the ramp to stand next to me. His hand rests on my shoulder. “I’m going to take her inside, if you’re sure you don’t need a ride?” Archie hasn’t moved his hand and the way he’s staring at Mr. Hopkins...
God, my head hurts.
“I’m okay, Archie.” I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision and fight back the pain. “Just a headache I think. I’ll be right as rain after some Tylenol.”
“Take care of her,” Mr. Hopkins says, almost gently. “I’ll be fine.”
Archie ushers me into the house as the nearly-a-stranger walks down the ramp and towards the driveway. I have the sudden impulse to turn around, stagger back out the door, and follow him, but Archie is holding me close and moving me towards the kitchen table.
Coffee and butterflies. Butterflies can fly. But coffee... coffee is always there...
My head still pounds and pounds
, as if it is chanting something that I cannot understand. My mind goes foggy and images spin like I’m reversing a video tape in a VCR and the television is going haywire with that little, static line in the center of the screen. After a moment, the headache subsides, though, and the images go away. I look up at Archie who I realize is standing over me and I smile. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite ready yet. It’s... weird,” I stammer out, “I honestly don’t even remember you getting here. Have you been here long?”
“Not long. Remember, I got here just as your other visitor was leaving.”
“My other visitor,” I swipe a hand across my forehead. It feels clammy and too cool.
“Yes, Mr. Hopkins, wasn’t it?” Archie’s face looks concerned.
“Oh, no... I don’t know.” Confusion crinkles my eyes and mouth. “Archie, I think I need to lay down for a bit. I’m really sorry. I was looking forward to going out with you.”
“That’s okay. Can I make you some tea?”
“No,” I hesitate, “but could you stay for a while, even if I fall asleep. I feel...” what do I feel? “I feel scared.”
“Yeah, Jen, I’ll stay.” Archie gives me a half-smile, but confusion still plays about the expression.
Her Mind
-M.H-
Ten days after Tilda’s disappearance.
I FIND THAT I AM MORE and more enamored with this artist. She is wearing overalls that were once plain white, but are now a rainbow celebration, courtesy of a million colorful oil splatters. Her face is speckled with yellow and purple paints. In front of her is a canvas now covered in bold brush strokes, each brush movement seeming like a declaration. Of what? I do not know. She is humming to herself, a melancholy tune I do not recognize, and she stops what she is doing, every few moments, to look out at the forest. I can see the pictures moving through her mind, the way she is imagining Tilda appearing at the wood’s edge.
She does not understand though— even if the girl walked to the very border of the trees, she could not be seen. She is hidden away, a hostage of my once-prison. And I plan to keep it that way, no matter what it takes. Even if it means threatening and hurting this woman, this woman whose body calls to my own. I’ve sent Toady to pass along this threat, against Jen and Hoyt. I know I can carry it out against the man... but the woman? That will be harder.