“I’m sorry you feel this way,” I say clearly over Koll’s labored breaths. “Know that I always wished you well.” I turn and fling the door open to the stars.
Another page turns in the endless book of my life. What’s next?
I run to the house of Gunnar, my other friend here. His wooden house is dark and snug against the cold. I knock softly at the threshold. Gunnar appears at the door, his face bleary with sleep.
“It’s late, Meldun. My woman and children are sleeping. What is it?”
“I told Koll, and he didn’t take it well.” I shiver. The night is frigid, and disappointment and fear are getting the better of me. “I need to leave, and quickly. But I didn’t want to go without saying farewell.”
Gunnar’s face drops with sadness.
“You’re leaving?”
“For good, I’m afraid. We’ll not meet again.”
In the distance I hear shouting. Faintly, the word “Meldun” floats on the air. I wince.
“They’re after me. We’d best not be seen together.”
“Come in for a moment. No one has seen you yet.” He pulls me forward and slams the door shut. I hear him fumbling next to the coals of the fire, then he returns with a bundle wrapped in a cloth.
“Bread and meat for your journey, and a flask of mead for warmth.” He throws his arms around me in a great bear hug, then releases me with moist eyes. “You can be sure I’ll give Koll a piece of my mind.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” I say sharply. “You must distance yourself from my memory, for the sake of your life here, you and your family’s. In fact, you should take your cloak and go join the manhunt. Please, I want to know you are above suspicion.”
Gunnar hesitates, but finally nods.
“Where will you go?”
I shrug and try to smile for his sake.
“Wherever the winds take me. Thank you for your friendship, Gunnar. And goodbye.”
He raises a hand in farewell. I pull the door open and slip through silently. The bundle tucks into my shirt, then I gather the necessary lauvan for a transformation. I’ve recently experimented with a new form, a small yet swift falcon, and I find its uses unparalleled. For example, as an escape route.
My wings pull my body powerfully up into the air and through the starlit night. Another false step, another move. I ought to be more judicious in my choice of confidantes, but I was so sure of Koll. My wingbeats thrust me ever forward, onward, to the long future that lies before me. Next time I will be more careful. Next time I will be certain.
***
The wheelchair squeaks on every rotation, a discordant counterpoint to the chirping of birds flitting above us. Leaves drift down to the asphalt path and crunch beneath my feet.
“I love this time of year,” Josephine says dreamily. “The air is crisp, the trees are colorful, and the apples are sweet. Not that I’ve had any this year, but I’m sure they are.”
“They are indeed,” I assure her. Josephine’s appetite has been minimal in the last few months as her health deteriorates. “I’ll buy some when you’re up for it.”
“That sounds lovely. Stop at the bench—I love this view.” Before us lies a garden of roses with a few late bloomers gamely hanging on. Beyond lies a calm, unruffled lake. I wheel the chair to face the garden and sit on the bench with my hand on Josephine’s. She squeezes it.
“Do you have to give yourself wrinkles and gray hair?” she says plaintively. “Now that I’m staying in the hospital I never get to see your true face. We could pretend you’re my son.”
“I don’t fancy the Oedipal connotations. What if we spend some time in your room later? I’ll read to you and we’ll tell the nurse to leave you alone.”
“It’s a deal.” Josephine carefully settles deeper in her chair and closes her eyes. The skin under them is a translucent gray and so fragile-looking. I rub her knuckles with my thumb. The snarled lauvan at her center draw my eyes involuntarily. I’ve spent so many hours trying to untangle that mess, but my powers don’t work on every ill.
“It’s not really fair to you, is it?” Josephine says without opening her eyes.
“What isn’t?”
“That you have endless life, but marry someone with a shorter one than usual.”
“Not fair to me?” I laugh incredulously, then bring her hand to my lips tightly. It’s a minute before I can speak. “No. In life, fairness is rarely a factor.”
“At least we had a good time, even if it was too short. It was fun, wasn’t it? I couldn’t imagine spending my life with anyone else.”
“It was the best,” I agree. “The very best.”
“Oh, you. I’ll bet you said that to all your wives.”
My lips twitch in response to her teasing smile.
“Perhaps, but it doesn’t make it any less true.”
Josephine opens her eyes and lifts her frail arm to caress my salt-and-pepper hair, carefully constructed this morning in the bathroom mirror of our little bungalow on the lake. Ten years we’ve lived here—made friends, bought groceries, I even worked as a pastry chef for a hotel in town—and now Josephine’s time is almost up.
“Merlo?”
“Hmm?”
“Where do you think you’ll go after this?” Her fingernails run the length of my scalp in a hypnotic motion, but not enough to distract me from the pain her question lances through my heart.
“Must we talk about it? Denial is much more comfortable.”
“Indulge me. I’d like to imagine you happy and well in the future. Oh, do you think you’ll take up with a disco girl, feathered hair, platform shoes and all?” Josephine chuckles, then smooths my hair and looks at me with a critical eye. “I think you could pull off longer hair.”
“I’ll have you know I’m particularly handsome with flowing locks. Exactly the right mix of rugged and good-looking.” Even as I play along with Josephine’s teasing, my mind actively closes off from thoughts of the future. A long span of darkness is all I can see, opaque and complete. I don’t need to tell Josephine that, though. Firstly, because she should only have to deal with her own pain. Secondly, because doubtless she already knows.
“I believe it. You’d be my handsome Merlo no matter your hair length.” She takes my hand again and we watch geese floating by on the gentle currents. Josephine is due back soon for her pain medications, but we have a little longer. She squeezes my fingers. “Will you visit the Eiffel tower after I’m gone? We never had the chance, and I’d like to think of you up there, in the sky above Paris. I know you’ve been before, but still.”
“Of course, Josie, of course. Anywhere.”
“Just there. When you cremate me, you could take some ashes up—no, forget I said that. That sounds far too turbulent. I’d like you to sprinkle me in water. Not the ocean, it’s far too big.”
“The river?”
“Too fast—it doesn’t sound very restful. No, put me in the lake. Borrow the neighbor’s dingy, and drop the ashes in the middle. Yes, the lake would be lovely.”
“The lake it is.” I almost welcome the assigned task. At least it is one structured thing I can picture myself doing before the dark void swallows me.
“Good. I’m glad I remembered to mention that.” Josephine leans forward with a wince and peers intently out to the water. “Merlo, look. Is that a green kingfisher?”
I follow her gaze. The unmistakable large-beaked profile and white collar of a green kingfisher glides low over the water. It’s a rare sighting on this northern lake, although more common in Josephine’s hometown in southern Texas.
“Looks like it. It’s a long way from home.”
“I used to love them as a girl. As comfortable in water as in the air. Oh, look!”
The bird dives gracefully into the lake and disappears from sight. Josephine sighs peacefully.
“A little taste of home. All right, honey, I’m ready to go.”
CHAPTER XXIII
Alejandro is peppy this morning at bre
akfast, spreading jam and crunching toast with gusto. I eye him over my coffee. He finally notices, and hurriedly gulps down his mouthful.
“What?”
“You haven’t done much sightseeing on your trip so far. I’ve monopolized your time with such mundane events as car chases and kidnappings.”
“It’s been great. No, really,” he says when I raise an eyebrow. “It’s true. Unconventional, but exciting.”
He’s telling the truth, amazingly. His lauvan slide slowly in contentedness. He’s proven himself to be a worthy companion, and a credit to Braulio.
“If you have no plans this morning, perhaps you’d like an aerial tour of the city.”
I wait a minute for my meaning to sink in. When it does, Alejandro’s lauvan give a tremendous jolt and his eyes widen.
“Do you mean—change? Into a bird?” He grips the side of the table in his excitement.
“It’s cheaper than a helicopter.”
“Yes! Yes, I’m ready!” He leaps up and nearly knocks over his chair in the process. I laugh loudly and gesture to his food on the table.
“Finish your breakfast. First rule of transformation: only change on a full stomach. It’s difficult to fight an animal’s survival instincts, and staving off hunger is not natural.”
Alejandro sits reluctantly, and his lauvan continue to dance in happy agitation. He crams toast into his mouth as quickly as is decent.
“You’re eating like it’s going out of fashion. Don’t worry, the skies will still be there when you’re done. This gives us time to set up a few ground rules.”
“Air rules?”
“Just so. Keep a clear idea in your mind of your human self. Perhaps a memory of an activity you enjoy, or a person you love. Refer to it often, to remind yourself to keep the bird at bay.” Alejandro looks worried, so I add, “It’s more straightforward in the moment. Don’t fret, you’ll be fine. Stick close to me. Remember, I’m the only one who can release you from your bird form. Still want to do this?”
“Absolutely,” Alejandro says, his eyes shining.
“All right. Finished your breakfast? Then come to the balcony.”
I move to the glass door, but Alejandro is already ahead of me. He slides the door open and steps into the cool fresh air of an early summer’s morning, more typical than the heat streak of late. I follow and position Alejandro to face me.
“Stand still. This will take a few moments. It’s been a while.”
“Does it hurt?” Alejandro asks with curiosity, not fear. I shake my head and gather the necessary lauvan. I’ll need to knot Alejandro’s strands for him to fly free of me.
“It feels strange, but not painful.”
I think for a moment, then twist three strands around my index finger. It’s been a very long time since I’ve recreated this form, but I think I remember.
“What kind of bird will I be? You won’t really make me a pigeon, will you?”
I shrug, not willing to spoil the surprise. I have no use for pigeons, brainless flock birds that they are. I’ve never bothered to learn their form.
“Are you getting picky, now? Flying isn’t enough for you?” One last knot, and I straighten up. “One tweak, and you’ll transform. Are you ready?”
“Always.” Alejandro’s lauvan that aren’t tied up are tense with anticipation. He has an innate bravery that keeps surprising me.
I pull the lynchpin lauvan, and all the knots I’ve carefully constructed fall into place. Alejandro dissolves before my eyes and reforms closer to the ground as a large, glossy-feathered golden eagle. I grin when the eagle stretches its wings and peers at them quizzically, then yank my own lauvan to transform myself into my usual merlin falcon.
I don’t waste any time. My beak opens in a shrill cry that clearly says come. Alejandro’s wings stretch in reply. I thrust my own wings out and down to leap into the sky. A whoosh from behind tells me Alejandro follows.
We catch an updraft and ride it high in the air, until the cars shrink to lines of shiny beetles inching along their paths. Alejandro shrieks his excitement. I cut across the wind and clip his wing with mine. When he soars after me, I fold my wings and drop in a heart-stopping dive.
Alejandro is right beside me, as if he anticipated my move. We plummet to earth, and I’m overtaken with a fierce joy to share this with someone again.
***
Wayne and I are on the roof again for lunch. The weather has turned, and our heat streak is over.
“Looks like rain,” Wayne says. He points westward at a bank of darker clouds on the horizon. “Hopefully only rain. What do you think, any sign of unseasonable fog or wind?”
“There’s been no sign of anything unnatural since we dropped Drew off. Perhaps Potestas has no more interest in me. I believe we’ll be able to enjoy our lunch in peace.”
Wayne takes a reflective bite of his sandwich.
“No more attacks, hey? That’s good news. Although I doubt this organization will ignore you going forward. I did a little digging last night, and I found that all four of those businesses—you know, the cupcake shop, the lawyer—they all have some connection to the same corporation. It’s called Feynman Inc.”
“Never heard of it.”
“No, neither had I. There wasn’t much information readily available, but I’ll look around a little more. See if we can’t track down some names or addresses.”
“That would be great.” I’m still amazed and gratified by Wayne’s speedy acceptance and willingness to jump in feet first. It doesn’t happen often.
“So, your powers. You can move things around, change the shape of objects, see the wind.”
“Correct.”
“And you can mess with people’s minds.”
Ah, here it is. I’m surprised no one has mentioned it before now.
“In a manner of speaking,” I say cautiously. “I can affect a person’s mood or emotions. For example, with Drew, I made him very susceptible to suggestion. It doesn’t last for long, and it doesn’t work on everybody, but I’ll admit it is useful at times.”
“I’ll bet.” Wayne looks out over the roof to the empty lawn. The dark clouds loom closer. “What’s your take on the ethics of making people do things against their will?”
“It’s not great, I’ll admit. I only rarely pull it out. But when the choice is death or lauvan, I don’t hesitate. Or,” I think of the bouncer at the club. “When it truly doesn’t affect anyone.”
“Murky waters, Merry.”
“I know.” I grin at him. “You’d better stick around and keep me in line.”
Wayne holds up his water bottle in a salute.
“Will do.”
The rain starts, a gentle pattering of wetness that brings the promise of fresh coolness, renewal, and change. For the better? I don’t know.
“I guess that’s lunch.” Wayne stands. “Come on, back to the grindstone. Papers don’t read themselves. Unless you have a power for that?”
“I wish.”
***
I’m home early, and not sure what to do. I wander through the kitchen but there’s no point in cooking if I’m not hungry. In the living room, my fingers pluck the strings of my harp experimentally, but I’m not in the mood to make music. I could go out and do one of the thousands of new and exciting things this modern world has to offer, but at the moment I’m nostalgic for the past.
Where is my sketchbook? I haven’t looked through it in ages. I’ve been afraid of opening it since the fire. I didn’t want to see the extent of the damage.
But it’s time. My hand reaches down to the shelf where the sketchbook usually lies, and grasps empty air instead of the rough edges of bound parchment and paper. My eyes follow, and my heart stutters. The sketchbook isn’t there.
“It’s here somewhere,” I say out loud to reassure myself in the silent apartment. “Perhaps in the bedroom.” But even as I move to the hallway, a sinking feeling grows in my stomach. I clearly remember placing the sketchbook on the bookshelf
after Jen had glanced through it. A thorough search of my apartment yields the answer I already know.
The sketchbook is gone.
Panic bubbles under the surface even as I try to think. Who would have taken it, and for what purpose this time? I should have protected it, somehow. I was complacent after Drew’s incarceration. How many times must I learn the same lesson?
A knock has me sprinting to the door. I fling it open. I must have a wild light in my eyes, because Jen looks startled.
“What’s wrong, Merry?”
“My sketchbook,” I choke out. I take a step into the apartment and rake my hair back through shaking fingers. “It’s gone. I know I don’t need it, but I can’t—I can’t…”
“Merry!” Jen looks alarmed and guilty. She comes in and closes the door. “Don’t panic. I have it right here.” She pulls a package in a plastic bag out of her voluminous purse. “I thought I’d have it back before you noticed. I’m sorry.”
My body slumps against the wall with relief, then I snatch the package from Jen’s unresisting fingers. My hands shake with anger now, instead of fear.
“You had no right.”
I march into the living room and sink onto the couch, then unwrap the bag with care. I need to see it with my own eyes.
Familiar brown leather with new blackened edges swirls with my own brown lauvan, and I heave a thankful sigh. My fingers run over the charred edge, then catch on something underneath. There is another book there, with a laminated red cover and spiral binding. I pull it out. The cover simply states, “Property of Merry Lytton.”
I look at Jen with a mute question in my eyes.
“I’m sorry the binding isn’t nicer,” she says with a wave at the book. “It’s all the quick-copy place offered. But I got the sense that the contents were more important to you than the delivery format.”
I flip the cover open. The first page of my sketchbook appears. Nimue’s gray eyes peek out from the paper with mischief and fun, even through the blocky form and thick lines of my attempt at artistry. It’s a high-quality photocopy. I page through the rest, and everyone is there. Perhaps half of the pages are singed at the edges, and a few foreheads and eyes have disappeared into ash, but most pages are intact.
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