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Celestial Souls, Book I: Christine
Chapter Ten: Exile

Upstairs was no different than I had seen it before; Megalos and Konstancja were both in the kitchen, talking animatedly in another language. I didn’t think I had heard this one before, but aside from the sing-song one, all the others tended to blend together, so I might have been confusing it for something else. Megalos paused to greet me in English; she ignored me, wincing and patting her stomach from what I assumed to be a very strong kick.

But Ruth apparently wanted a more private venue, so she steered me into the living room, directly across the hall from the kitchen. I was reminded, just a little bit, of the formal sitting room in the Dessler place, but this looked more lived-in. Still rather fancy, but not quite as much. I was seated on the couch, Ruth beside me, and Theophanes taking a spot at a nearby armchair.

“Is there a reason for this?” I said.

“We’re just a little...concerned,” Theophanes said. “If you knew she was there, why didn’t you tell the police?”

“I didn’t remember until just now,” I said.

“You didn’t remember a thing?”

“Just that I cut myself. The police were asking me questions and nothing was coming to mind.”

“Did it seem like it would eventually?”

I blinked. “I thought I knew the answers, but they weren’t coming to mind. Like blanking out on a test or something.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever had that problem,” he said to himself. “But you couldn’t remember a thing?”

“No,” I repeated. “That was why I was carrying that rag around, like I said. I thought it might jog my memory.”

“Hm,” Theophanes said, looking pensive. Ruth looked concerned. The conversation in the kitchen was as animated as ever.

“You don’t remember...anything else?” Ruth prompted. “I know it’s your business and all, but we’re just tryin’ to help.”

Repressing a sigh, I tried to think back. There was dinner...a period of blank space, then talking with Carmen in the basement, trying to think of ways for me to remember (but how did she know I was going to forget?) the time and place we were in. “We were kept in a basement. I think I told the cops that.”

“And?”

After that, another big blank space. The mention of the store being robbed jostled something in my mind, but I couldn’t place my finger on what. What had been stolen? Books?

“Anything at all,” Theophanes added.

“You said the store was robbed – when was that?”

Ruth thought about it for a minute. “Tuesday, wasn’t it? I came down to open shop and the book section was a mess.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Wednesday?” Theophanes said.

“No, Tuesday,” she said. “What about it, hon?”

“Something about it...seems familiar. But I can’t remember what.”

“Something to do with books?”

I frowned. “No, I don’t think so. There’s this one book you don’t seem to know what to do with – I keep finding it everywhere. Once in the supply closet. Once...in the back somewhere...I think. I might’ve imagined that last one, but I can’t figure out why you don’t just shove it in with all the other books.”

Now Ruth frowned. “Which book was that?”

“One of the old ones. Real yellowed pages and a fancy leather cover. No title that I could see on it.”

“I don’t know every book I’ve got stocked off the top of my head. You’d have to show it to me.”

“I don’t know where it is now.”

“Didn’t you just say you saw it in the back?”

“I can’t remember for sure...”

“Well, I’ll go and check.”

Theophanes glanced at me as his wife left, heading downstairs. I shrugged helplessly. He didn’t attempt conversation as Ruth was downstairs. According to the clock, five to six minutes had passed before Ruth came up again, looking grim.

“Theo,” she hissed, gesturing him over, just outside the doorway. Excusing himself, he left, and there was a tense, hissed conversation. Coupled with the sing-songy language, they sounded rather like a pair of snakes hissing at each other. It was bizarre.

Theophanes went downstairs again, while Ruth came into the room, holding a familiar-looking book.

“All I found was this, tucked away on a shelf,” she said. “In the small room in the back. Is this it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Why don’t you just put it with the books?”

“It’s being held for someone,” she said.

“Oh. Well, it seem to keep coming across it, is all.”

“Is that it?”

“Yeah...”

She did not push the subject, and it was just as well. I wasn’t feeling up to much more questioning. Megalos paused from his conversation to mutter something to Ruth, and then the both of them glanced at me, still in the living room. Did they think I was that clueless?

Sylvia picked me up this time, even though I suspected she technically shouldn’t have been on the roads. I didn’t know if her Aussie license was good over here. But we passed by no cops on the road, which was a relief.

“Mama’s not happy with you,” she said.

“What now?”

“She didn’t think you should be working so soon after what happened.”

“I already skipped a day by accident,” I said. “Might as well work the full day to make up for it.”

“She doesn’t think you’re up to it right now.”

I snorted. “I went to lessons yesterday with no problems, didn’t I? If it were her, she’d be back at work the next day if she had to.”

“Lessons aren’t the same thing as working,” Sylvia said, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes, “Especially not for nine hours as compared to the one you have for lessons. She thinks you need to...recover.”

“From what? Everyone’s said I’m healthy and not hurt.”

“I meant mentally,” she said.

“Are you saying I’m crazy?”

“I’m not saying that, but you’ve got huge gaps in your memory. You couldn’t even remember how you were taken, and I would think that would stick out in your mind. That’s not healthy.”

“And yet I’m still here,” I retorted. “It’s coming back, okay? Just a bit at a time. So get off my back.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Sylvia snapped as we pulled into the driveway. “For God’s sake I’m trying to help. You should have heard Mama on the phone when she got the news. She was going between screaming for blood and sheer panic. You mean a lot to her, and she’s upset that you seem to be repressing it.”

“Oh, like she’s never repressed anything? I’m getting the idea that she doesn’t think I can take care of myself. And don’t you start about whether or not I can fire a gun because I don’t think that would have helped.”

“No, we don’t,” Sylvia said, jerking the door open for me. “You’ve had a very comfortable life compared to mine—”

“Don’t start that again, Sylvia—”

“—and if bad situations come up I don’t think you’d know how to handle them—”

“—you’re being condescending again, and you know I hate that—”

“The both of you!” Mama snapped from the kitchen. “Stop it! It’s been a year since you’ve seen each other and I don’t need to hear you two bitching the whole time!”

Sylvia quickly silenced herself, shedding her boots and heading to the kitchen. I stayed closer to the door, feeling angered as I headed to my room.

“Not even a hello?” my mother said as I passed the kitchen.

“Hi, Mama,” I said as I passed. She arched an eyebrow at my tone.

“We’re all too much like you for our own good,” Sylvia grumbled to her. “She’s got a temper that rivals yours.”

Dinner was awkward. Everyone seemed to be very moody; Sylvia and my mother were giving me identical looks as I shoved food around on my plate – far too much, as usual – and Thom glowered at everyone. For some reason I thought he never liked Sylvia, but that might have been because he didn’t know her as well as I did. She had left home when he was only a baby.

“What’re you glaring at?” my mother said to him.

“Nothing,” he muttered, going back to shovelling food in his mouth as if he’d been starved.

School passed by in a disorienting way. It was now November, and teachers were jumping down our throats to apply for college or university, as this was the prime time to do it. For weeks we were told our grades were important, our extracurriculars were important, and our community service hours were important, as we were reminded needlessly that they were needed to graduate. That was the great thing; I had gotten all forty of mine done well before I had come here, and they had merely transferred them over. Thom wasn’t so lucky; he had about twenty hours, and hadn’t done any since we had gotten here.

“Oh my God, I just need five left to graduate,” Shelby fretted. “Do you know of any place that’ll take volunteers?”

“The public library, maybe?” I suggested to her.

“I tried that. They’re not taking them right now.”

“Ah...” I said, trying to think. “Maybe the church? I know it’s stupid but this is a Catholic school; maybe it’ll count for something.”

“I could try that, I s’pose,” she said, “We only go Easter and Christmas.”

On the other side of the portable, Carly was fretting about the exact same thing:

“These community hours are so stupid,” she sniffed. “I don’t even see why we need them.”

“How many d’you have?” Eric asked.

“Twenty-five, and they were all so boring,” she said.

“Oh,” he said. “Mine are done already.”

“I should go over to your place,” she said to him, “Maybe you could help.”

I tried not to gag at that, turning my attention back to Shelby, who was busy scrawling out information on a form, looking displeased.

“Do you have any idea where you want to apply?”

“Everyone wants to apply to Western, so there,” she said, “I dunno about the other two options. Aw man, stupid paper forms. I can go online and fill out the exact same thing for free. Why did they give these to us?”

“I dunno,” I said. “Waste of paper.”

“Waste of ten bucks, too. Where are you applying for?”

“Western,” I said. “If not that, maybe the University of Toronto. Possibly the Royal Conservatory too, but I don’t think the application covers that...”

“Yeah, I don’t see that here,” Shelby squinted at the paper.

“Too bad.”

Work wasn’t much better – and I went, regardless of what my mother thought. Ruth seemed to think I was up to the task, and she assigned the same duties I usually did, though now Konstancja was leaving sooner and sooner, looking tired. People were coming and going more than ever, but unlike near Halloween, they didn’t look like they were shoppers. Instead they would talk with Ruth or Theophanes, should he be there. Long conversations too, sometimes; I observed one that had to have gone on for two hours before the woman left, looking grim.

It was during one such conversation that Ruth asked me to temporarily man the register, as she apparently couldn’t concentrate on both subjects (and languages) at once. So while she stood off to the side, muttering with Serena – there again – I stood at the counter, nudging around the corner of the mat underneath me with my foot. It was a Thursday afternoon; no one was likely to come in, especially not so close to dinnertime.

But, apparently, I was wrong; the bells on the door jangled and a man stepped in. Immediately, instinctively, I felt a sudden chill down my spine; I shuddered. I couldn’t quite explain why, as it was a very irrational gut response. Luckily, neither Ruth nor the man noticed. He ignored me for a bit, heading off towards the books. I drummed my fingers on the countertop as I waited. The feeling of unease passed as he passed out of my line of sight, but came back immediately after he re-entered the main room – I felt uneasy, then bam! There he was, standing in front of the counter. I had barely seen him move.

“Hello?” I said, trying to put on a smile even though my instincts were not happy. “Can I help you?”

He then turned – he had been glancing towards the junk room, as I called it – towards me, and whatever else I was going to say died in my throat. He was pale, as pale as Serena or Ruth, but there was a certain glowing look to him that did not make him look sickly like they sometimes could. I couldn’t quite explain it. His hair was equally pale, lighter than even Konstancja’s, and fell around his face in loose, wavy curls. He was, if I should say it, beautiful. But my instincts were still screaming at me that something was wrong.

“I am looking for certain book,” he said; chills ran down my spine again; the voice seemed familiar, even though I knew I would remember if I’d seen this man before. “I checked the shelves back there and I could not find it.”

He spoke very deliberately, enunciating every word with a strange accent. I tried to get my mind to work properly:

“Well, do you know the title or author?” I said, fumbling for a pen. “I can – check the inventory and see if we have it in stock—”

“It will not be in stock,” he said; I shuddered again, “There is only one copy of it.”

“Well, what’s it called?”

“It does not have any name you could pronounce,” he hissed – he might have been speaking normally, but he had a strange intonation that made him sound like he was hissing.

“If it doesn’t have a name I don’t know how I can help—”

“You know where it is, Christine,” he said pointedly, making eye contact. His eyes were as pale blue as Serena’s, if not paler, and had the same sort of energetic ‘glow’ to them that I couldn’t explain. I outright jumped at this, starting to believe my instincts.

“How do you know my name?”

His face remained passive, despite the threatening aura he exuded: “I am familiar with Ruth and her husband, but that is beside the point. That book has been reserved for me, and I require it soon. Please go to the back and get it for me. No one will come in during that time.”

I glanced backwards towards the book room, where Ruth and her friend were still talking in low tones.

“Let me just check with her,” I said, forcing my legs backwards, all but stumbling towards the room.

Ruth glanced at me as I stumbled in. “Hey, um, there’s this really – weird guy here. He says you’re holding that old book for him.”

She looked mildly annoyed that I’d interrupted. “Sorry,” I added, “He just really creeps me out and I wanted to buy time.”

“Tall guy, pale hair? Looks like he could be related to Konnie if he had some tattoos?”

“Er, yeah.”

Ruth frowned, excused herself, and went back into the main room with me. She immediately began to speak to him, sharply, in that sing-songy tongue, but even when she was done, he would not leave, saying, in very clear English:

“How inconsiderate. Our clerk here is not fluent in that tongue.”

“Okay, I’ll say it in English: you ain’t gettin’ that book, and if that’s all you came for, you might as well turn ‘round and leave.”

“You know I require it.”

“I know it belongs to someone else.”

“I know, my dear Ruth, that it would be better placed in my hands. You have no idea what you are dealing with.”

“I don’t care whose hands it’d be better in, it’s going to who it belongs, and I think you know why.”

“Indeed I do,” he said, the faintest hint of a scowl on his face. “And I have told you there are other ways for you to—”

“And you know why none of those ideas would work half as well,” Ruth said, visibly irked now. “Now I’m askin’ you to leave.”

The man looked mildly surprised at this, arching an eyebrow. “Exile has hardened you—”

“What?” I said dumbly.

“Out,” Ruth growled.

“Very well,” the man said, raising his hands in a defensive position, “But Christine,” (I shuddered again), “The next time you see your captor—”

“Don’t you go dragging her into this—”

“—please be a dear and ask him why he was foolish—”

“—now stop buyin’ time and leave – right now!”

“—enough to not only leave fingerprints all over the handle but to have not noticed that he dropped one of his lock-picks?”

He held up something small and metallic, placing it on the counter before silently sweeping out the door. Even his walk was oddly graceful.

“I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about,” I said, far too quickly.

“’Course not, hon,” Ruth said, all warmth gone from her voice. “You just forget whatever you heard. It’s nothing you need to worry yourself about.”

Once something like that was heard, it was very hard to forget it. Exile? From where?

School passed by rather quickly. Between poring through colourful university brochures swiped from the guidance office, each one of them containing the most flattering pictures, usually with a safely diverse group in the foreground, and homework, the time passed by quickly. Before I knew it, it was getting close to December. Murmurs of the Christmas semiformal were floating about now. I doubted I would go. I had nothing semiformal to wear, and not much money to buy anything. Maybe I could talk to Ruth.

“Good news!” Shelby said cheerfully one morning. “Finally found a place that’ll take me.”

“Great!” I said. “Where is it?”

“The church,” she said, wincing a little bit. “I think I fooled ‘em into thinking I actually care. It’s not religious-y stuff either. I think I’m helping out in the office.”

“All you need is five hours,” I said. “How hard can it be?”

“Yeah, it’s a day’s work, tops. I should probably get a little extra too, just in case something goes wrong.”

“Always a good idea,” I said. “Good luck with that.”

Shelby snorted. “Yeah, I’ll need it after dealing with a bunch of old ladies.”

We headed inside; I passed by Eric standing out front with Carly’s group, trying to squirrel away to the back. This was hard, as Carly had a vice grip on his arm, and would not let go. It was a rather sickening display, really, treating him like nothing more than very unwilling arm candy.

“Hey Eric,” I said to him.

“Hey,” he said. He did not say much else.

This seemed to be a growing trend lately, of me trying to be polite and Eric politely returning my greeting, but not actually talking. It had started ever since I had been found, and it was getting very annoying. He couldn’t possibly still be beating himself up over it, could he? It seemed like that was the case, and I was really getting sick of it. I wasn’t angry with him; why should he be angry with himself?

At lunch I tried to confront him; he was standing in line, waiting to get his food, and I wasn’t far behind; no more than two or three people. He got his food, a full plate that couldn’t get much fuller, and went to pay at the first register; I got my food and went to the second. We were outside at roughly the same time; he didn’t seem to notice me as he went to the little condiment counter and piled ketchup onto his plate, rendering everything even more a mess.

“Hey,” I said, standing next to him, reaching for the salt. He jumped. “You okay?”

“Oh, hey. I’m fine,” he said.

“You don’t seem fine,” I said. (Damn, I couldn’t put much more salt on the food without gagging. I went for the napkins instead).

“What d’you mean?” he said, somewhat wary.

“I’m getting the idea you’re avoiding me,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. He already seemed to think I was still angry; I didn’t need to make it worse.

There was a long pause; he seemed to have finished piling everything known to man on his plate. Our hands brushed as I reached for another napkin; he jerked it away as if he’d been burnt, waiting until I’d finished to grab his own.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I kinda am.”

“And...why is that?”

“Because I’m still feeling godawful, okay? Some distance is nice.”

“I don’t like it,” I said. “I like talking with you. This...this sort of hurts me.”

Eric looked, if my guess was right, even more guilty. Damn. I should have worded it better. “I think I’ve messed you up enough.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I said. “What did you ever do to me? And if you say you ‘let me get kidnapped’ – or whatever you think happened – I swear to God I’ll pop a blood vessel or something. You didn’t do anything, okay? I don’t think you did, I never thought you did, and I’m not angry.”

He didn’t say anything.

“My mother doesn’t seem to think you did anything either, so if you’re worried about her riding your ass, I would stop it,” I added, giving a small grin at this. Even Eric seemed to laugh a little at that.

“I—” he said, stopping suddenly. “I know that you’re not pissed, because – well, you’d not be talking to me if you were. But that doesn’t stop me from – from feeling like something’s really messed up about the whole thing. I can’t explain what. But until I figure out what the hell’s going on, distance...is a really nice thing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, they’re waiting outside...”

“Is it because you’re having trouble remembering?”

He paused. “Yeah. Can’t remember anything, and that makes it worse.”

“I couldn’t remember much when I got out too,” I said. “It’s coming back. Do you remember anything at all?”

“We were in the basement,” he said. “Then I must’ve taken you upstairs”—

“Do you remember that or are you just guessing?”

“Just guessing. What’s the difference?”

I shook my head. “A lot. I remembering being in the basement with you...and then next thing I remember I’m in a basement cell. What happened in between?”

“I don’t know!”

“No, that’s the question we should be asking ourselves. Guessing isn’t the same as knowing, and I know there’s something in that missing time that’s important. I can’t remember what, but I’m trying.”

He looked confused.

“Do you remember...something like this?” I asked, tapping my nails against the surface of the counter. Tap, tap, scriitich, they went. Morse code. I had no idea what letter.

Eric frowned, his brow furrowed in concentration. I kept tapping. “Anything coming to mind?”

“Something...but I might’ve imagined it. I...really should be going.”

I felt disappointed. “You...like hanging out with Carly?”

“Carly can be harsh,” he admitted, still looking disturbed. “And mean. But the rest of them aren’t bad.”

“To you, maybe,” I muttered.

“What?” he said, clearly not catching my voice in the multitude of other conversations.

“I don’t like them,” I said more clearly. “They’ve never really been nice to me.”

“You have Shelby,” he pointed out. “Isn’t she Carly’s second cousin or something like that?”

(I gaped.) “Where the hell did you hear that?”

“From Carly,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Now I’m sorry, I’ve got to run, but they’re waiting...”

And he left, leaving me feeling immensely frustrated.

Thursday evening, in the last week of November, found me at the store again. I hadn’t known country stations to play Christmas music, let alone country Christmas music, but it was even more irritating than their usual fare, and it was going on non-stop. The commercial breaks were a relief.

Ruth was manning the counter the whole time I was there now; Konstancja looking positively irritated by this fact.

“You like standing there?” I said to her once. “All day?”

“No,” she said. “She put me there once pregnancy got to certain point. Now she take me off. Thinks I cannot handle it,” she said, with a pronounced rolling of her eyes. “What would she know?”

“I dunno,” I said lamely. “You seem tired a lot.”

“I am – that just happens. I cannot stop working because of that.”

“I didn’t say stop working – just, you know, try and take it easy.”

Konstancja snorted, amusement in her eyes. “You never have had baby before, have you?”

I blinked. Unless she was seriously mistranslating in her head, which didn’t seem likely given her decent grasp of English, there were some serious implications there. “What do you mean before?”

“You think this is first baby?” she said airily, as though there were absolutely nothing wrong with the situation.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Well you are wrong,” she said. “This is second.”

“So where’s the first one?”

That seemed to be the wrong question to ask; Konstancja’s features darkened and she became a lot moodier: “At home with father.”

“And...where is the father?”

“Far away. Where I want to be,” she growled. I shrunk back, away from her and closer to the counter.

“He left you?” I said, trying to be consoling.

That seemed to snap her out of it, a little bit; she snorted with laughter again as if the notion was absurd: “Hardly. Him. Leave me! Ha!”

Still chuckling at the idea, she went back to what she had been doing; pricing new items. I didn’t quite know what to say to that, and Ruth was giving me a look that suggested I’d better learn where the bottle of glass cleaner was or else, so I decided to drop the subject. It was still puzzling. This was her second kid, but where was the first, and why were they not already with her?

I still hadn’t found out anything about any exile, and neither Ruth nor Theophanes were willing to give a hint about it either. Not that I could blame them – what would I say? ‘Hey, what’s this about being in exile?’ or ‘How’s that exile coming along for you?’ Yeah, I don’t think that would get me very far.

“Oh, shit,” I said, upon realising the bottle of cleaner was empty, “Is there more in the back?”

“Dunno, hon, you’ll have to check. If not...start dustin’ or something. Awful lot of dust builds up in here.”

I could imagine why. It was while I was heading over to the supply closet did I feel an all-too-familiar chill down my spine. Oh, no. Not again. Turning around entirely too slowly, I saw the same radiant man, dressed in the same black turtleneck and jeans, leaning on the stand for a large mirror. He seemed to have been there a while, but I hadn’t heard him come in – I would have noticed that, at least. I felt my muscles lock up, freezing me in the same awkward position, gaping at him. How on Earth had he gotten in here, and why was he just standing there, staring?

“Hello, Christine,” he said.

I resisted the urge to shriek, biting down hard on my lower lip as my legs worked on instinct, stumbling backwards and flying out of the room. I didn’t stop until I’d reached the counter, where a baffled Ruth stood. Bracing myself on the wood, I tried to not sink and fall to the floor.

“Are we outta Pine-Sol too?” she said, trying to come to grips with the fact that I was likely chalk-white and shaking. I still couldn’t explain why I felt so upset around him, but the fact that he knew my name without being told didn’t help circumstances. There was just something about him.

“There is,” I stammered, “that – that really creepy guy – in the other room. I swear to God, I dunno how – how he got in but he’s just standing there and I can’t explain why—”

Ruth furrowed her eyebrows. “What are you talkin’ ‘bout, hon?”

“There is that weird creepy guy in the other room and I didn’t hear him come in!” I repeated, jabbing my finger in the direction of the junk room for emphasis. Frowning, Ruth stepped out from behind the counter and made her way over to the room, very calmly. I waited by the counter, and after a moment, she came back, looking grimmer than she’d been before.

“It’s taken care of,” she said.

“But I didn’t hear you say anything.”

“Nothin’ needed to be said.”

And that was that, at least until Theophanes came home. Ruth lightly suggested that I get to work doing some basic dusting on the bookshelves, rather than the junk room. It was as I was doing that, trying not to sneeze at the dust floating about, did I come across that book again. It had been roughly shoved into an available space that was slightly too small, resulting in the book being very compressed. I attempted to pull it out, perhaps there was a better spot for it, especially if it was being held for someone else.

Several surrounding books fell out as I tugged the damn thing out of its’ spot. Grumbling, I picked them up and set them back; the space was much easier to deal with now that one book was gone. I glanced at it – no title or author, or any kind of details at all. I was curious to know what was in this book. Feeling tentative (the book looked like it would fall apart if handled badly, and I was never good to books), I carefully eased the cover open. It didn’t fall off, which I considered a success.

There was a very old, musty smell to the pages which made me wince. I glanced at the first page – lots of jagged-line script, some of it written in a bold red for emphasis. There looked to be a title and author here, judging by the way the text was laid out and how certain segments were emphasized, but I didn’t know what it was.

I turned the page. As that one didn’t fall out or crumble into dust, I considered it a second success. More text. More red. I turned the page – blank, utterly blank – and then did so again. This second one was empty except for a title in the centre and a small, carefully done illustration of...something. Several circles, all of them painted a deep sky blue, and I was guessing that each circle represented another, higher level, like looking up at an elevator shaft from below. I turned the page again.

I couldn’t tell exactly what it was – recipes or an encyclopaedia, or what, but there was plenty of black text with red emphasis, plenty of illustrations – some colour, others only done in black ink – and it was primarily with those I entertained myself. None of them were very good drawings – more on the level of a medieval manuscript, although there was a curious kind of regularity to them – people were always portrayed the same way; men and women were both a deep brown, with differences lying only in hairstyles and certain trinkets. Sometimes objects or places were portrayed, rather than people or scenes; one page had amazingly detailed depiction of the stars and planets’ positions in the sky, and the pages afterwards showed their gradual movements.

It was vey fascinating, in that exotic sort of way, and something about it triggered something in my mind. It couldn’t place my finger on what – everything I tried resulted in a mental roadblock.

“Good evening, Christine.”

I jumped; Theophanes was leaning on the nearest bookcase, his tie slightly loosened.

“Interesting reading?”

“Oh, er, I’m not really reading,” I admitted. “Just...looking at the pictures.”

He came closer, slowly, to glance down at the paper. Did he know how to read this? Because I knew I was completely lost – which wasn’t unusual in this store. His finger hovered over one line of text, which began in red ink, and he appeared to mouth the words to himself.

“You can...read this?”

“Oh, not very well,” he said. “I can pick out a word here or there.”

“That’s a few words more than I can. What is this language anyway?”

“A very old script,” he said. “It’s...no longer in common use.”

“But what’s it called?”

“Nothing either of us could pronounce correctly.”

“There’s no harm in trying,” I said sweetly. He frowned a little bit at this, like I was asking questions I shouldn’t be asking. Good. All of those times he spoke sing-song language were very confusing, and I was going to get answers one way or another, even if it came in bits and pieces.

“Nisekem-eme,” he said, very slowly, struggling to form the correct, enunciated word, “It’s a very rare dialect of early Egyptian, I believe; I’m no linguist so I couldn’t say for sure...”

He was rambling off a long explanation as to what that was, but I wasn’t paying him much attention any more. Nisekem. It was very hard-sounding, and staccato, and very, very familiar. Someone else had mentioned that same word, and also offhandedly tossed out the obvious fact that they weren’t a linguist, either. But who? The man who’d kidnapped me, and all those other girls. Who was he? I didn’t know. He’d said something else about that too, something far more important...

“It’s...from...Egypt?”

The words came slowly as I tried to find the connecting thread, the bit that would allow me to remember the rest of what had been said.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s quite old. You should probably put it down; too much handling could damage it.”

“Are you sure it’s from Egypt? Very, very sure?”

He gave me a look, a sharp, calculating one. “Yes, I’m very, very sure.”

“Not from another country?”

“My dear, where else do you think it could be from?”

“The...place where the Nisekem are from,” I said slowly. “It’s near here.”

“Are where, exactly, is ‘near here’?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

His face didn’t show any emotion, any idea of what he might be thinking, and I felt anxious as I waited for him to answer. It took him a while to mentally deliberate, but finally, he spoke:

“I think it’s about time you met a friend of ours,” he said, gently taking the book from my hands (and generously leaving me the duster I’d been holding before). “Come with me.”

I shuddered even before we started moving. I’d been so immersed in the book that I’d completely forgotten about the creepy man, who apparently hadn’t left. Was I seriously the only person who felt like that? Ruth seemed angry, but not scared; I hadn’t talked to Konstancja about him so I didn’t know how she felt.

Sure enough, he was in the main room, his odd radiance somehow drawing all eyes to him. I couldn’t help but look at him even when my mind was screaming ‘something’s not right!’ Ruth was at the counter, apparently talking to him and Konstancja – she seemed more irked than scared too, leaving me to be the irrational, knee-jerk emotional one.

“Ruth,” Theophanes said quietly, leaning in close to speak in low tones. I had no idea why; he had to have known I couldn’t understand their sing-song language any more than I could understand Greek, and yet they were speaking it. I would have sighed, or tapped my foot, or shown some kind of impatience with them – but Good God that man was frightening me enough I could barely move.

Konstancja sidled over to me, looking amused. “You are not first person to be scared. Many people in my village are. They think me odd one out because I do not fear,” she said in low tones.

“You know him?”

“Too well,” she sighed. “He not so bad once you get very acquainted. But no, everyone cowers like baby, even grown men. Even my husband – very strong, very brave, but speak of him and he turn to scared child. Pathetic.”

And she accompanied this with a roll of her eyes as though she found the whole fuss absurd.

“Your husband?”

“Yes. I am old enough for that. How old do you take me for?”

“Um,” I said, glancing at her. I had never thought too closely about her age, being more distracted by the tattoos and dyed skin, but looking her over while standing very close... “Mid-twenties?”

Konstancja literally laughed, breaking the silence; Ruth and Theophanes both jumped. “Seventeen, silly.”

Wow, she hadn’t aged well. I was seventeen, and I was lucky if people thought me a high school student. People were more likely to think of her as a college student when in reality...

“Are you sure?” Ruth hissed. “’Cause I clearly ‘member you sayin’—”

“Yes, I know, but that was before. She knows now,” Theophanes hissed right back, before standing straight. “Christine, this is...a friend of ours.”

“Hello,” I squeaked.

“We have already met,” the man said, lightly, “Not under the best of circumstances, unfortunately.”

“And...his name is...?” I forced out. He already seemed to know mine, long before Theophanes had bothered to introduce us, so there didn’t seem to be any point in repeating myself.

The man said something, wistfully, in the sing-song tongue, before correcting himself: “If you find it easier, you may call me ‘Thanatos’.”

“Is that your name?”

“No,” he admitted, “But I long ago stopped identifying with my true name, so it would be pointless to refer to me as such.”

“Oh.”

“Do I frighten you?” Thanatos said.

“Frightens most people,” Konstancja muttered, followed by something I didn’t catch.

“No,” I lied. It didn’t sound especially convincing; considering my voice was so shrill I was surprised it was audible. I half-expected it to go so high-pitched that only dogs could hear it.

“Forgive me. I forgot that most people have an unfortunate reaction if they have not been mentally prepared.”

“Yeah, how ‘bout that,” I said. “It was – nice meeting you, but I should get back to work now—”

“Christine,” Theophanes said. “Stay here, please. There’s a reason I decided to introduce you.”

“Pace yourself, Theophanes,” Thanatos said. “This is not the sort of thing which should be learnt all at once, especially not in her condition.”

“What condition?” I demanded.

“Why, your memory, of course. Far better for you to remember the offending portions on your own rather than us telling you.”

“She remembers enough now,” Theophanes said. Ruth went to lock the door, switching the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’ before resuming her post at the counter.

I frowned. “Remember what?”

At this, Thanatos shared a glance with Theophanes, as if saying ‘see, I told you so’.

“Think back as much as you can,” Thanatos said. “When you were being held hostage.”

“I’ve been doing that for a while,” I said. “It’s coming back, okay?”

“Then do tell us what you’ve remembered,” he said.

“Something about...people. Far away. I dunno where, just that they weren’t from around here.”

“Another country?” Thanatos prompted.

“Yeah, but I dunno which one.”

“And...what would you have to say if I told you dear Ruth and her husband were exiled from their country?”

“I’d say...sorry to hear that; it must really suck?” I shrugged. “Exiled from where?”

Theophanes smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Maybe we’ll wait until you remember a little more to get into details.”

“O...kay...why were you exiled?”

“That question, my dear, is out of bounds until you figure things out more.”

“So what’s the point of even telling me if you’re not gonna tell me why?”

“We had hoped it might jog your memory a bit more,” Thanatos admitted. “Does it not even sound familiar?”

“It does,” I said. “Someone...said something very much like that, but I can’t remember who or, you know, what.”

“Hm. Perhaps it was more effective than we thought,” Thanatos commented.

“So, if you’re exiled,” I said – it was easier to just go with it than question it, “and, um, I know this is stupid, but are you guys here...legally?”

“Of course,” Theophanes said. Ruth rolled her eyes.

“Depends on how you define—”

“Hey, I’m not gonna go to the government or anything,” I said, “Somehow I don’t think they’d believe me anyway.”

“Regardless of who would believe whom, what our status is here isn’t really your business,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, raising my hands defensively. “How ‘bout I go home and think about it, and on Saturday we can talk this out more?”

“A fine idea,” Thanatos said.

“But please, Christine – keep this quiet, would you?” Theophanes said. “Regardless of what you remember, this isn’t something we’d like leaking out.”

“No, of course not,” I said. But in my head I was thinking something much less pleasant – like ‘why would you bother to introduce me to someone and promise to tell me something, and then not do it’?

Sylvia decided to pick me up – I still didn’t think she was allowed to be on the roads – and we drove home in silence, mulling over what happened. For some reason, the very little that I remembered seemed much less important than it first had. What was now important were those big gaps, in which I couldn’t remember much of anything – bits that sounded familiar, but I didn’t have a frame of reference for them, or even the big blank spaces where I didn’t remember anything.

Saturday was the twenty-seventh; exactly two weeks until the Christmas semi-formal. With tickets officially on sale, the student council table had been utterly swamped at lunch on Friday. Shelby had asked me if I was going. I had said no. She had seemed very disappointed in that fact.

“But what about asking Eric?” she had said.

I shook my head. “He doesn’t want to see me right now, and this isn’t the sort of thing you go alone to.”

For some reason, I found that fact very depressing. But I tried to distract myself, to think about other things, those big gaps in my memory. It was difficult, trying to piece together the fragments I could remember. Something about the Nisekem. Something about other countries, and them being far away. Something about language. It didn’t seem to tie together coherently, and yet I knew they had some important. The only clue was figuring out what.

I was at the counter for the morning, Konstancja being not well enough to do it, and Ruth setting up Christmas decorations. The time to myself was fine; the store hadn’t been busy, and it gave me plenty of time to think while ringing up the few customers that did come in. I ran a finger along the thin scar on my palm; it was still reddish and shiny, and by the looks of how it was healing up, there would be a permanent scar there.

“Somethin’ the matter, hon?” Ruth said lightly. “You seem upset.”

“It’s nothing,” I said automatically. “Just...stuff.”

“Care to talk ‘bout this ‘stuff’?”

“It’s nothing you’d be interested in.”

“I can be interested in a lot of things.”

“I’m just...really frustrated right now. At, like, everything. It’s not even just my memory, it’s just...well, forget it.”

“I thought you didn’t want to do that,” she drawled.

I grinned a little bit at that. It didn’t cheer me up much.

“Listen,” Ruth said, a little later on, “I was thinkin’ ‘bout it last night, and you’ve paid off that mirror by now.”

“How much was it?”

“It was a gift from someone with more money than sense, so it was damn expensive. Let’s not get into how much it was, but if you wanted to, I’d be willin’ to put you on the payroll.”

“That’d...be nice. Thanks.”

Just before lunch break, the bell rang. I glanced up – and jumped. It was Shelby, her red hair crammed underneath a hat, and bundled up in a thick coat. Never mind wondering why she was here, how had she found the place, let alone known what days I was working?

“Can I help you, hon?” Ruth said.

“It’s okay,” I said to her. “She’s my friend.”

“I thought you’d had the ‘no friends on work time’ talk.”

“I swear to God I had no idea she was coming.”

“Hi Chris!” Shelby said breathily, shivering from the cold. “I was ‘round here and thought I’d drop in. Volunteer work; the church is not far from here.”

“Make it quick,” Ruth said.

“Oh, sorry – I don’t wanna get her in trouble,” she said to Ruth – then, turning back to me, “Um, I thought I’d bring you something. You seemed pretty upset yesterday about the whole dance thing. Well, the whole Eric-avoiding-you thing, too. Anyway, don’t ask how I got it, but I’ve got some hot chocolate here, and I can’t drink it all. I already had, like three cups of coffee and if I drink anything more I’ll explode.”

She set the large thermos she’d been holding on the counter. “You can just bring it by on Monday.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, surprised. “Thanks. All this way for hot chocolate?”

“It’s only, like, two blocks,” Shelby said, “One of the church ladies gave it to me and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so, er, help me out here, would you?”

I grinned. “Sure. Thanks.”

“I’d talk more but I don’t want to get you in shit, so I’ll call tonight. When do you get off?”

“Six, but don’t try calling until at least seven.”

“Oh, yeah, you guys eat really late, I forgot. Anyway, I’ll see you around.”

And so we said our goodbyes and Shelby left. Ruth, leaning on the counter, fiddled with the lid of the thermos.

“No date for a dance?” Ruth said, sympathy in her voice.

“Nothing to wear, either,” I said. “Semi-formal. It doesn’t matter; I’m not going.”

“Aww,” Ruth said, in what was supposed to be sympathetic. “Who were you gonna ask?”

I felt myself flush. “I was gonna ask Eric, but...well, he’s messed up in the head right now. Not to mention this chick named Carly’s probably asked him already.”

“’Messed up in the head’?”

“Yeah, he seems to think it was his fault I got kidnapped. People’ve said that he stopped to get gas on the way home and when he went in to pay, I was taken. I don’t think that’s what happened, but I can’t remember and he can’t either – you okay?”

Ruth had gone very pale at this, locked into position like a statue. “He can’t remember? You sure?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I asked. He said most of it was him guessing. He didn’t even remember this.”

And I tapped my nails on the countertop in the same scratching noise Carmen had used. “Carmen was scratching at the walls while we were in the basement, and...he was with me...”

I didn’t know why Ruth looked so upset herself, twirling the lid of the thermos around aimlessly – but I knew why I was upset. We were in the basement...we had heard scratching noises...then I had found myself somewhere else, several hours later?

It could only mean one thing, and it was one thing I didn’t want to think about.