by Nikki Hyson
Some minutes later, she released a sigh. “Procrastination strategy sixty-five: the number of perfect musical moments are legion. Savor each of them.”
Stephan had called them Lily’s Rules. She’d never thought to name them until he started writing them down. Number twelve involved cooking all day to save time for writing later. Number thirteen, her favorite, involved the consumption of more caffeine.
Ah. Lily threw back the blankets from her fleece nest. Coffee.
Amos touched his paw to her leg. Looking down, she forgot about a second cuppa and met only the beagle’s wide, brown gaze.
He stared. She stared back, and her heart lurched.
For just an instant his eyes might’ve been Stephan’s; his look the same disapproving question. Why are you wasting such precious time?
Lily reached down, caressing the soft muzzle before pulling a bundle of script filled pages closer. She couldn’t claim ownership of the decisive strokes filling the sheets, but she knew it well. Stephan’s hand. Stephan’s notes. The precious first ramblings of a novel he’d never finish. Until recently it’d lived in a box at the bottom of her closet. Never knowing the light of sun or moon; never speaking of the things he’d whispered across them. She hadn’t wanted to know the last words he’d written. She didn’t want to know the reason he’d paused, jotting notes in the middle of a cross walk.
Barely glancing at the rust stained pages, she returned those to the box and shut the lid. His journal, keeper of literary ambitions and protector of white nights, called out to Lily. Drawing a breath, she opened it to the silk ribbon marking her place. The exhale brought his words over the top of Zimmer’s best intentions, allowing her to hear Stephan’s thoughts in a voice that didn’t raise tears or lumps.
There’s magic in words. Some more than others. Any writer who’s whispered a question by a solitary voice; who’s felt the faint stirrings of a possibility one moment and been engulfed by creative flames the next, is aware of the truth. But what of the readers destined to be writers? The ones lacking the courage to try? What becomes of the characters they’re destined to create? Were they born subconsciously or were they created by a spark of something else? Not all, but a few, that resonate across the pages and are never forgotten. Where do they go if their blood is not spilt upon the page? What becomes of them?
Lily frowned. This bit, and his longer synopsis, read like some sort of literary thriller. What inspired this? Stephan wrote high fantasy in the vein of Tolkien, Brooks and Martin. Dragons and quests fueled his creative fire; the only mysteries involving court intrigue. What were you trying to write? Lingering over a glass of water, she flipped to some of his detailed notes.
Arthur Conan Doyle (May 22, 1859-July 7, 1930) met James Barrie (May 9, 1860 – June 19, 1937) and Robert Louis Stevenson (November 13, 1850 –December 3, 1894) in college. Maintained friendship for life. Played cricket with Barrie, Wells, Tennyson’s son, and others. 1893 Doyle killed off Holmes and Moriarty. 1901 wrote the Empty House, resurrecting Holmes to pay for his religious endeavors. Died in his garden of a heart attack, clutching a flower. His journal was on the ground nearby. Pen was never found.
James Barrie lost those he cared for most throughout life. His brother David died when Barrie was only 6. A friend and fellow cricketer, James Watson, died at Barrie’s home from a spleen ruptured during a brawl. The parents of the Davies boys died in ’07 and ’10, leaving him co-guardian of them. He then suffered the loss of two of the boys when they were in their 20s. George was killed in action (1915) in World War I. Michael, with whom Barrie corresponded daily while at boarding school and university, drowned (1921) with his friend at a known danger spot near Oxford. It would not be strange if he finally broke under it-if he struck back at the source of his inspiration.
H.G. Wells (September 21, 1866 – August 13, 1946) Last of a literary circle that included Barrie, Doyle, and others. What wouldn’t he have done to right the wrong of a friend now gone? What wouldn’t he have done to maintain the balance? What if—
Lifting her eyes, Lily slipped a finger between the pages. “What if what, Stephan?” Brief bits of biography she’d already known, mostly by heart, but she always felt the need to read these two pages through. As if some snippet might bring enlightenment. Why these interconnected writers? What about this had inspired him?
With a dissatisfied sigh, she closed the notebook, reaching for one of the barely browsed ledgers instead. The ones not written by Stephan’s hand.
It’d been aged with great care, each leaf meticulously tea-stained to give the appearance of decades. She might’ve sworn it was real if she didn’t know better. Yet authenticity wasn’t a possibility. How could Stephan have come by a journal written by H.G. Wells? And if he did find one, wouldn’t he have shared it?
Pages crackling in soft protest, Lily opened it to a date she hadn’t read yet. She traced a finger under the date.
July 8th, 1930
They have not found Arthur’s pen. I dare not press Jean. She has no idea the importance of it and some things are best left to the dead. She would never understand the things he saw in the mirror— things all of us have seen. I don’t think Barrie will ever comprehend the full weight of his actions that day.
September 25th, 1931
Eleanor and Charles were here last night. She has hid the mirror well but she fears Moriarty will find it. And her. I wish it could be destroyed and this danger put away, but she says that is impossible. Her duty forbids it. The way to the Forsaken Corridor must remain open or madness will overtake all writers before too long. But she has been running, hiding for over a year. How long can she last?
June 20th, 1937
My friend died yesterday. The weight of it presses heavily upon me. As does Eleanor’s package that came too late to stop her. That damned mirror. She says it is safe in my care, and begs me to pass it on to her son when he is older. To have faith in the prophecy. The prophecy! It is a myth! That a child of ink and blood can…what? I don’t know. Change the heart of a villain? Doesn’t she, of all people, know the truth of paper souls? Villains aren’t meant to be tamed or controlled. They aren’t written that way—
The more Lily read, the more questions instead of answers rose to the surface. She didn’t need this filling her heart and head. Not tonight. Perhaps not ever.
Lily skimmed the final line of the entry.
—And now she has led danger to my very door.
Lily shivered under her quilt. Not what I need tonight. Not after that cryptic warning from James. She wanted to vanish into a book where she felt loved, brave enough to face another day. This path couldn’t take her there.
Without regret, Lily gently layered everything back into the box and closed its lid. Too comfortable to return the box to her closet, she slid it under the futon frame, and reached for Stephan’s book. He’d written the pair of them into it. The shape shifter with a bounty on his head and the bespelled elvish princess who fall in love while questing to save a clutch of dragonets. Flipping to one of several dog-eared passages, Lily slipped into the world of Stephan’s making.
Amos whuffled a sigh.
10
Clouds of cream dispersing, Lily tapped her spoon against the cup’s rim before laying it aside the chess board at her elbow. Cinnamon and honey wafted upward on the steam, beckoning seductively. “You make the best chai,” she praised, lingering over her first sip.
Stephan, arms folded across his Henley, leaned his hip into the three feet of counter they called a kitchen. He watched her drink, a hint of a smile under his stubble rough jaw. “Well, not every cup must be a coffee.” Continuing to study her, even after the tea was gone, he asked softly, “How are you, Love?”
Buying time, she fiddled with the edge of the edge of the chessboard. He waited until she finally glanced, his brow arching to repeat the query.
Lily sighed into the admission “I think I’m going a little crazy. Sometimes, I think I can hear someone. In my head.”
; Without moving, Stephan sat at the table beside her. His hand covered hers, the heat of him soft and familiar. “What’s the voice saying?”
“She’s telling me to trust someone. Someone that, I think, might need my help.” Lily turned her hand palm-up, letting his fingers slide between hers. “But, he’s dangerous.”
“I’d never let anything happen to you.”
She found his brown eyes. “But you aren’t here.”
The truth cut, his gaze flicking away to shield her from it. “I’m sorry, Lily.”
“I know.” Squeezing his hand, offering absolution, she almost whispered, “What now?”
Stephan picked up a knight from the board resting between them. “When we play, do you blame the knight? The bishop? Who chooses their path?”
“We do.” Somewhere, in another room that didn’t exist, Amos began barking. “What are you saying? James is under someone’s control?”
“I was a knight once,” he admitted, studying the chessboard. “Your knight.” Setting the piece back down. “Time to wake up, Lily.”
“No. What are you trying to tell me?”
“It’s your dream. We can only work through the problems you already know about.”
“Amos, shut up! So, there is something else I need to know?”
His smile turned her knees to butter, just as it always had. “Get the door, Sweetheart.”
Lily awoke with a growl, then a much softer groan. Two a.m. Asleep for a solid ninety minutes, it would be enough to keep her awake until nearly dawn. “Amos,” she hissed to the manically scratching beagle at the front door. “What’s wrong with you?”
Tail on point, nose whuffling the miniscule crack at the door’s bottom, he scarcely paused to glance Lily’s way. Several whimpered pleas elevated into a bayed bark before she could roll from bed.
“Amos!” Pulling on a flannel shirt to cut the chill, Lily reached the front door in three strides. Spying through the eyeglass, she frowned. Nothing. Not that she expected someone in the wee hours, but the beagle was usually more reliable than that.
Pressing his drooly maw against her shin, she whispered an urgent, “Hush!” His surprise bought a moment’s silence. Just enough time to hear the pitiful cry. Rowr?
Two deadbolts and a chain rattle instant later, Lily and Amos stared at a spaniel puppy sitting in a small lake of pee on her welcome mat. Amusement trumped confusion, laughter bubbling even as she stooped to rescue the pup from an over-eager inspection. “Hello, Little One. Easy, Amos. Easy. Manners!”
A sweet huff of milky breath almost made Lily ignore her stomach’s subtle clench of knowledge. He must be around the corner. “Yes,” she soothed the wriggling, too-tired pup. “I’ve got you.” Gently, she massaged one of the silky ears even as her gaze traveled down the empty corridor. “James.”
No reply. Nothing to suggest that she was talking to anyone other than herself.
“James, I know you’re there.” Lily waited a beat, and then another. Maybe I am going crazy. “I can’t keep her. I’m only allowed one, but I know someone who will love her. Is that alright?”
“Yes, of course.” His words filtered softly down the midnight corridor, but he still refused to step into sight. “Thank you.”
“I have something for you.” Bluntness sharpened the next words, instinct twisting them with wryness. “Will you wait a moment, or will you run?”
A chuckle. “I’ll wait.”
“Thanks.” She ordered Amos back inside. It was by miracle alone that Amos’ fascination with the puppy made him oblivious to James’ voice. Three failed attempts at obedience, one success, and a moment later, she stood before him.
Puppy tucked close to her chest, Lily held out a journal. Words rehearsed, her lips parted to offer explanation, but shut again at the sight of him. Flushed of cheek but almost gray-complected, he leaned a shoulder into the wall for strength. James?
Lily swallowed back the exclamation rising up her throat. His eyes slid from her face. He’s embarrassed? Because he’s weak?
Thrusting both journal and pup at him, one of her hands went to the pulse at his wrist. “Your heart is pounding.” Frowning, she dared lay her other hand upon his forehead. “And you’re as cold as ice. When did this start? What have you been doing?”
“Just rescuing the puppy. It’s a girl then?”
She batted away his attempted distraction. “You need a hospital.”
“I’ll be fine. I need to go. Business meeting.”
“After midnight? Just what do you do, anyway?”
“Security.”
With intent, her look called him a liar, her next words only slightly more diplomatic. “What kind of security firm holds one a.m. meetings?”
“We have rich clients. Very rich.” James shrugged. “Some sleep until noon. Would you tell a million-dollar client one a.m. doesn’t work for you?”
“No,” Lily admitted. “I wouldn’t. Still, you need a doctor.”
“Yes. Afterwards, but I can’t miss this.” He handed the pup back. “Thanks for taking her. I didn’t have anyone else.” James tried to give the journal back, but his artificial hand seemed stuck somehow. “Take it.” Flushing, he had to look away. “Please.”
Lily’s heart clenched, the longing to help him setting her nerves on edge. What have you got me into? “No.” She closed both hands around the joining of plastic and leather, ignoring his involuntary twitch. “This is what I wanted to give you.” The barest lift of her shoulders, she forced a lightness the last five minutes had stripped away. “In case you ever wanted to write.”
Looking down at the black cover, James read the gold letters flowing across its center. “There’s a book in you that only you can write.”
His eyes slid shut for a long moment.
So long, that she couldn’t bear the suspense. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you believe that?” James studied her. “There’s a book in each of us?”
Her answer mattered. Lily read it in those eyes that gave so little away. “With all my heart.”
“Can we talk sometime? I have so many questions.”
Lily moved her fingers up, gently squeezing his forearm where she knew he could feel it. “Of course,” she said, and then let him go.
Emotions again veiled, his shoulders squared as he retreated a half step. A final glance at the sleeping pup and he took another step from her.
“See a doctor, James.”
He turned to the stairs.
“Promise me,” she added.
Just as it had in the pizzeria, her voice stayed his step but he didn’t turn back. “I’m not worth the worry, Lily.”
“My choice, not yours. See a doctor, James,” she repeated, no less kindly but with a degree of finality.
Continuing down, he didn’t pause. “I promise.”
11
James stood quietly just beyond the Guild checkpoint; the gift she’d thrust upon him, deemed harmless by the clerk, bulging in his overcoat. Somehow, she knows. The echo of Lily’s hand, still warm on James’ wrist, raised blisters of doubt. I need her help.
The ancient floorboards behind him creaked, but James didn’t turn. He already knew the man by his stench. Thoughts still spiraling, he grasped the one truth he knew. If you want to save her, you must let her go.
“This way, Hook,” Barsad snapped out.
Washing his face free of these emotions he understood so little, James met the grizzled sentry’s sneer with a faint smile. He knew how to play this game. Father taught me well. The unexpected knowledge, slipping so easily to his thoughts, nearly betrayed him. His step, always strong within these walls, stuttered forward. Pain slicing him to the core, James leaned into his cane for support.
The clerk at the desk, not yet old enough to shave, noticed. “Something wrong, Captain?”
Answering with a brief headshake, James gripped the cane’s silver handle. “I’m fine,” he assured, meeting the concerned look with a tight smile before following Barsa
d away from the reception area.
Stopping before the inner chamber, Barsad mocked the clerk’s concern. “Somethin’ wrong, Cap’n?” No one ever knocked on the gilded doors. Nothing to do now but wait.
Fire, pounding up the back of James’ head, added heat to his warning. “Leave it, Barsad.” His heart, always silent until tonight, quickened to an uneven beat under his useless coat. “Not in the mood.” Rivers of sweat rose across his hairline. Pulling in on himself, James suppressed a shudder. If only there was warmth with the fever.
He’d felt this once before. It had been like this on the day they’d yanked him here. Barriers down, words that bound both fate and actions newly dissolved; every emotion came rushing forward, demanding dominance. It didn’t lasted long. They’d seen to that.
God, how I hate that memory.
“Supposed to be my turn. Mine to go out on the streets and fulfill contracts. They wanted someone better.” Barsad growled his complaint, long standing grit that would never make a pearl. “The mighty captain has fallen ill. How’s that possible? What a laugh. They wanted the great captain. They wanted you. Ha!”
Enough! Two leaps closed the distance, James’ elbow sliding up under Barsad’s chin and pinning him to the wall. Fear sprang to ready life in the eyes of the spy, the rasp of steel filling the hall.
James leaned in, mouth stopping just shy of the spy’s ear. “Do you know why they chose me over you?” James drank Barsad’s panic like rum, eyes glittering as it fed some dark place within him. “Do you know why they cut my emotions away? Left yours intact?” Each gasped breath, each quickened beat of his prey’s heart reminded him of days chasing The Boy.
“They fear me, Barsad. Not you. Never you. You betrayed your country. All you held dear before you even stepped from your pages. You aren’t worthy to place a toenail outside this house.” James smiled. “You’ll never leave these walls.”
