by Abra Ebner
Jane slid out of the booth, her hands tight at her sides as she walked rigidly to the back of the restaurant, a cocoon of negative energy surrounding her.
Max:
I urged Jane into the café, watching her as she crossed the street before turning and making my way to the corner where the apothecary sat, dark. I pulled out my wallet as I walked and searched for a key I hadn’t removed from its place for many years. I’d received the key in Patrick’s will, but I’d never had the guts to come back here to use it.
Reaching the door, the darkened window was an unwelcomed sight. In my mind, I saw the way the apothecary once was—the windows warm, the scent of perfumes seeping into the street—all that was gone now.
Unlocking the door, I slid inside. The shelves were bare and coated with a thin film of age. I drew in a deep breath, trying to find the smell that reminded me of Patrick, of the father figure I’d grown to love after my own father had died, but I didn’t. I exhaled, disappointed.
In my head, I had always seen him as a part of my family. He’d loved my mother in a way my real father never could, and though my real father chose to ignore the love they shared and live a lie, I knew it had still left him bitter. I always thought I was strange because none of it ever bothered me, as it should have. I guess in my defense, I figured there was no way to know when true love would find you. The unfortunate thing in that were those, like my father and Avery, who’d suffered because of it.
Ruining Avery was never my plan. Understandably, Avery hated me for it. As much as I tried to remain here to be supportive, the string of unhappiness my actions caused robbed me of the sanctuary Winter Wood once offered. She’d disappeared soon after my desertion from this place, a thankful thing, and I really couldn’t blame her.
I stole to the back room, opening the office door and finding the space untouched. There was a half burned candle on Patrick’s desk, the wax frozen in the last moment he’d beckoned it to burn, forever waiting for his return. I moved forward and pulled out the desk chair, the oak creaking as I sat. I sighed, shutting my eyes and remembering the many times I sought council from him in this very room.
I heard the echo of his voice against the walls, the squeak of the chair a trigger for the vision. There was always the smell of lavender in the air. It was my mother’s favorite flower. His belongings were, at all times, perfectly placed, perfectly dusted, and well loved—a far cry from the condition I found them in now. Clearly his friends, family, and the government had already searched his belongings, but found seemingly everything useless, except to me.
Opening my eyes, I leaned forward and began to search through the drawers, all except the middle one, which was locked. I bit my lip, remembering what was once there. I took the key I’d used to open the front door and slid it into the lock, surprised to find it fit. It took a little nudging to make it turn and unlock, but when I slid the drawer toward me, I was disappointed to find it was empty. The Truth Stone was gone.
I slowly slid the drawer shut and sighed.
Was that what I had come here for?
I leaned my elbows against the desk.
Why was I looking for the Truth if this life, right now, was supposed to be all I wanted? Was there still more?
I allowed the Truth I’d seen to come back to me, and one thing seemed to resonate—the moment hadn’t yet happened. It’s true that I’d found Jane, the very same girl from the Truth, but wasn’t the Truth supposed to come to pass, like déjà vu?
What did it mean?
Jane was young in the dream, the same age she was now. It had to happen soon. “She’d found me.” I whispered, thinking of the words she’d said in the dream. “If she’d found me, then I must have been lost somewhere.” I bit my nails.
Lost.
I let the word roll around in my head, hoping to find a place for it, but nothing came without danger first.
Jane:
I ruefully pushed open the restroom door, allowing it to swing shut behind me. The room was long and narrow, mirrors down the left and stalls on the right. A red stripe of tile dissected the room, white above, and white below. I instinctively looked below the stall doors, and from what I could see, it was empty. I chose a booth and did my business, flushing the toilet with my foot before exiting to wash my hands.
With the cold water running over my fingers, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I stared deep into my eyes, wondering what it was about me that Max found so important. I’d never done anything worth noting, never succeeded at any real magick, nor did I know any besides creating a few sparks, and I’d never inflicted any Earth-altering change. I was just another person, plugging away each new day as I had the last. A strangling pressure occupied my chest at the thought. I wanted to do something amazing. I wanted to inflict change somehow, but how could I prove to the world that I deserve that? I wanted a real dream.
The restroom door swung open beside me, my heart fluttering with the sound. I didn’t want to know who or what was sharing this small room with me. My gaze dropped back to my hands, trying to act natural. I was on edge here, and my heart could barely handle it. Watching from the corner of my eye, a girl advanced to the sink beside me. I breathed a sigh of relief—at least this being was visibly identifiable. Her scent wafted in her wake, sweet and innocent, and distinctly cinnamon.
She turned on the faucet and slowly washed her hands, sighing dramatically as she concentrated on the task.
I allowed myself to take advantage of the moment and glance at her more completely. She was blonde, strikingly beautiful, and strikingly normal—at least considering the way our waitress looked. Her lashes were icy blue, her cheeks kissed with pink as though she’d just stepped in from a snowy hike. Her skin glistened like plastic, so smooth you wondered if it had ever seen the sun.
She began to hum, and like a thread of smoke riding on the scent of cinnamon, her future death flooded my mind. As I recognized what it was, one thing was obvious—she was not dead, just as Max wasn’t dead within his future death. She spun and spun and spun to the sound of her humming in a field so bright with the sun, there was very little contrast.
She shut off the water, breaking the stream of thought. Turning, she looked hopelessly for a towel to dry her dripping hands, but there was none. “Ugh… I hate this place.” Her voice was like a song, even though she was complaining.
I giggled a little, feeling just as annoyed by the absence of drying implements. I fanned my hands through the air in a failed attempt to substitute.
The girl looked at me, smiling. “You can never trust a grungy café, can you?”
I shook my head. “No. They’re always out of either towels or toilet paper.” I smiled back. “I guess I’d rather they be out of towels.”
The girl’s platinum blond hair moved like water, glittering despite the dull neon light. “Yeah,” she agreed with wide eyes. “Thank the gods for that.”
I was gawking, wondering how she could look so good given the atmospheric circumstances surrounding her. Her glittery eyes never stopped moving, so full of life. My own reflection showed bags under my eyes, and where she was pale in a beautiful porcelain way, I was pale in a sickly way.
Her gaze at last rested on me. “I’ve never seen you here before. Are you new to town?” the girl added, giving in to shaking her hands as I was.
“I guess you could say that.”
She grinned politely. “That’s nice. It’s good to have you.”
“Thanks, it’s good to be here.” I felt awkward and nervous, while she was teeming with confidence. “I’m Jane, by the way.”
“Jane? That’s a lovely name, very human.” The girl cocked her head to the side, inspecting me. “What are you? Alchemist, clairvoyant…”
“Seoul,” I finished the rattle of titles for her. “And you?”
She grinned, displaying a row of perfectly straight and perfectly white teeth. “Pixie,” she said simply.
Our growing warmth toward each other helped my shoulders
to relax. “You have no death, it’s nice,” I admitted.
The girl giggled. “I bet. I couldn’t imagine seeing that all the time.” She crinkled her nose, but still, it didn’t make her look unattractive. “I’m Navia, by the way.”
She’d paused as though she’d forgotten her own name, but it was endearing. “Nice to meet you, Navia.” I allowed her name resonate on my tongue. “Neat name.” It was admittedly strange to talk so frankly with someone like this—someone so purely magickal.
She tilted her head sweetly. “Thanks.”
My hands were finally dry so I stopped fanning them, dropping them to my sides. “Well, I better get back. But it was nice to meet you.”
Navia was staring at me with admiration, and I found it off-putting given her perfection—someone like her had no need to be amazed by someone as simple as me. “Nice to meet you as well, Jane. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
I turned away from her, her cinnamon scent still invading my nostrils. I grasped the door handle and pulled it open.
“Wait, Jane.”
I stopped, looking back over my shoulder.
She swiftly closed the distance between us, her hand outstretched, clasping a white slice of paper between her fingers. “Here, this is my number in case you ever want to see Winter Wood through a pixie’s eyes.” She thrust a thick card toward me. “It is a pixie town, after all.”
“So I’ve heard.” I grasped it, seeing blue swirls circle around ten simple black numbers. I laughed to myself, finding it so formal and organized, just as she was. “Thanks.”
Navia clasped her hands before her and stood on her toes, looking excited to have found me. “Don’t hesitate!”
I turned away from her, tucking the card in my pocket and pushing open the door. “I won’t.”
Even if I was delighted to meet her, the truth was that I already knew I wouldn’t call her. I had enough supernatural friends as it was. Besides, Max had a particular disliking for pixies. There had to be a good reason why.
Max:
I leaned away from the desk. There was a file cabinet nestled in the corner of the room, boxed in by a pile of old books. Resting on top of the cabinet was a picture of a youthful Patrick standing before the ocean, a smirk on his face. I had never seen the picture there before, so perfectly placed as though on purpose. I stood, drawn to it, drawn to the weather in the sky behind him and the look on his face. I lifted the frame, looking into his blue eyes. He was maybe in his early twenties, his dark hair lush and covering the whole of his head. His glasses were tucked into the pocket of his simple plaid shirt. I could almost hear the roar of the waves behind him, the rush of the clean sea air.
I flipped the frame over, surprised to see that there was a note written on the back:
Patrick,
Thank you for a wonderful weekend. I’m happy I found you, happy for the time we’ve spent together. I hope to see you again, very soon.
-A
It was dated 1909. Curiosity sparked my interest.
‘A’…
For Annette? My mother?
Why else would he keep it? It had to be her, but it was too early. I thought back, tried to recall my past life, though that was eighty-one years ago. The affair was exposed not long before Gregory murdered us, in 1928. Had Patrick and my mother really known each other for close to twenty years prior to that? I thought about my youth, remembering Patrick. Together, we spent days fishing and boxing, and as I grew older, he helped me discover simple tricks which became helpful when magick grew amongst the human world.
I flipped it over and looked into the alchemist’s eyes once more. Extending my arms, I placed the photo back on the cabinet, at a loss of what to make of it. I stood with my head bowed, my mind beginning to tingle with a growing notion. Fleeing back to the desk, I opened the drawers for a second time and searched with refined determination. Love letters from my mother—I had seen them in his drawers a hundred times, though Patrick never knew that I’d seen them at all. I pilfered through the piles of crumpled papers, prescriptions and potion recipes. Finally, the familiar and worn red ribbon snaked its way through the rubbish.
I hooked my finger through the loop of the bow and brought the bundle onto his desk. I untied it, letters slidding out across the battered surface. There were hundreds of letters, each organized by date. I sifted through them like a deck of cards. 1923… 1919…1913…1909…
1909…
I flipped open the carefully tucked flap of the linen envelope.
Patrick,
I refuse to forget the time we spent at the ocean, or the things you told me. You’ve enchanted me, stolen my heart in a way I thought was forgotten to me. You asked me to forget about us, but Patrick, I can’t…
-A
I looked back at the pile, finding the next letter.
Patrick,
You ask me to remain with Henry, but why? He is but a friend to me, an arranged marriage where the love has long since gone. You alone are my true love. I understand your concerns for involving me in your world, but I would do anything to be near you and live a true life as your wife. What grows inside my belly is not Henry’s, and I refuse to see it otherwise. I refuse to live the lie…
-A
I swallowed hard, multiple times, each time not able to accomplish breathing. I was about to choke, but there was nothing I could do to take back what I’d read, and what suddenly made so much sense. I placed the letter slowly on the desk, bowing my head into my hands as the sting of emotion tried to stir and spin my world. What grows inside her? I wanted to believe it was love that was growing inside her, but I cursed myself for being so naïve. I looked up at the picture on the file cabinet once more. Why hadn’t I seen it before? The clear blue eyes of the Alchemist; the same clear blue eyes I possessed.
“He was my… father?” I spoke aloud, wanting to hear myself test the term—it felt wrong, and yet so right.
My brows pressed together as my hands attacked the pile of letters once again. 1912…1915…1918…
Patrick,
Our children grow, my love. Our boys are just like you, and I wish you were here to be a part of it. Maximus reminds me of you, outgoing and bright, while Gregory seems reserved—thoughtful. Though I may not have you, I am thankful for the gifts you’ve given me…
- A
I threw the letter back on the desk—feeling lied to, like I’d been cheated time from my father—my real father. My eyes were then drawn to a letter written in Patrick’s hand. I picked it up, tracing the ink of the envelope, feeling the ridges where he’d forced his hand. 1927…
Annette,
I am pleased to send message that Maximus and our youngest, Erik, show promising signs of magick, but I’ve come to believe that Gregory lacks the gene. Max must have stolen the gift in the womb. Being twins will do that. My teachings frustrate Gregory, and I fear there is a darkness growing because of this. As much as I try to be neutral about their teachings, Gregory is beginning to notice that he is different. He’s too in tune with his brother for us to try and hide Max’s gift. I must tell Gregory. We must keep a close eye on our son; even the Element Pixies warn me of the things they’ve seen in the light of his soul...
- P
Overwhelmed with shock, I allowed myself to pull the emotion from Jane against my fears of allowing her to know. My eyes filled with her sweet tears. I clenched my jaw, the letter inside balled in my fist. Gregory had been lied to, and because of that lie, he’d cracked.
The following year Greg had killed us all. The timing seemed too perfect. He must have found out about my magick and Patrick’s true relation to us. Why hadn’t Greg told me? Of all people, I, as his brother, could have helped him. Greg didn’t deserve to handle this alone. He didn’t deserve to hear that he was different and his whole world was a lie. I would have given anything to change that, to give him what I’d apparently had all along.
Jane:
As I walked back to the table at the café, I stopped abruptly i
n my tracks. My heart ached like never before as an overwhelming feeling of loss and betrayal washed over me. What was Max up to?
I blinked a few times, feeling my eyes go dry, my own tears being sucked from me. I wanted to cry from the sting of it, but I couldn’t. Whatever Max was doing was hurting him—and me. Never before had he taken so much emotion like this. All I wanted was to run to him, comfort him. I forced my feet to move, making my way back to the table instead, caught in a foggy battle as to what was the right thing to do. Wes, Emily and Jake were deep in conversation, their hands animated.
“I think I should go check on Max,” I blurted.
Emily stopped talking, her eyes wide. “You’re sweating like a pig. Is everything alright?” She leaned toward me. “Why are your eyes so red?”
I nodded, wiping my brow. “Yeah, it’s just that Max is over at the Alchemist’s place, and…” I let my voice trail. My thoughts were thick, my mouth rambling.
Wes nodded with understanding, the first compassionate look I’d gotten from him in a while. That look alone relaxed me a little, making me feel as though there was hope for our friendship. The relief was quickly washed away as another wave of deep sadness fell over me, knocking the very breath from my lungs. I brought my hand to my neck, rubbing it.
