Author's Note: Hatred is a standalone oneshot… or it was supposed to be. But there are certain questions that I asked myself once it was finished that just wouldn't leave me alone. I hope to answer them now.
Also, fanfiction . net hates my formatting, so please pretend underlined parts are strikethroughs. Sorry! (squints at old formatting system)
It is five o' clock, the world's most famous timepiece chiming merrily. Beneath her feet, eight stories' worth of Labrellum employees stretch in their office chairs, locking up the laboratories and chattering like parrots in the elevators as they head out the front doors and into the late spring afternoon. The taste of summer is in the air, and they're excited for the weeklong holiday. They speak of summer gatherings: cookouts, swimming parties, trips to the beach, to the countryside, to the amusement parks. It's all in effort to rejuvenate the worn men and women who have slaved the winter away behind steel and sterile walls, looking longingly from their desks at the budding trees just beyond their grasp.
Up on the ninth floor, the setting sun casts long shadows across the spacious, yet empty office. There is a lack of personality, a sense of ambiguity. It could be anyone's space. The beige walls are bare, shadowy remembrances of picture frames marring the otherwise formless surface. The desk is plain, no photographs or stuffed animals or dancing flowers showing a hint of personality amidst the neatly organized workspace. There is a quill holder in the shape of a cat, though it's placed in a state of importance on top of a filing cabinet, half-hidden by a stack of manila folders. The only true sense of décor is a pot of red flowers, carefully tended. The inhabitants of the building, and the CEO herself, are both well aware of these flowers and their importance, though perhaps it means something different to them both.
The woman behind the desk is just as neatly organized and, somehow, as plain as the rest. Her face is pretty, eyes shining a bright blue-green behind her dark square frames. She wears no makeup, nothing to stand out among the crowd other than plain lip gloss that could easily be mistaken for shiny chapstick. She is always clothed in muted colors—grays, dark blues, greens and browns; these enhance the color of her eyes and bring out the warm tones in her hair. From afar, it's not hard to guess that she is beautiful in a singular way.
She is well-liked in the company; despite everyone's first impression of a young woman coming in to take over a multi-million dollar corporation, she has not only excelled but also exceeded everyone's expectations. She's kind but firm, smart but humble, polite but stubborn. She treats everyone equally and takes all thoughts into consideration before enacting a plan. She looks at problems from every angle to find creative solutions. She's easily approachable and everyone seems to get along with her. There are many who consider her a friend, if not an amiable acquaintance.
But though she is properly civil and gentle, there is something aloof in her nature that creates a breach between her and those who'd like to know her better. She is single, as far as anyone knows, but every man who has ever asked her to drinks after work has been politely declined. She doesn't speak much about her past: the only known facts about her are that both parents are dead, and that she has known the company president all her life. She has no social media accounts, no university degree, and no family. Any attempt to research her background provides no results other than her being employed at Labrellum Laboratories since the age of eighteen. CEO Ms. Eve B. Darklaw is a mystery that's seemingly impossible to solve. That, however, doesn't deter her employees from trying.
After all, they are scientists: discovering the unknown is their nature.
"Well, Miss Workaholic." The nasally tenor of her private secretary grates on her nerves; it's a constant factor along with the obsessive gum-chewing. Easily ignorable, but an annoyance if she thinks on it for any length of time. She reminds herself to never grow agitated at Ms. Primstone again; at least that woman knew when to mind her own business sometimes. Sometimes. "The day's over and you're still here!"
"If you're waiting on me to leave, don't feel as though you have to." Mrs. Mouthey is a direct woman, and being direct in return is usually the easiest route to take. "I'll be fine. Enjoy your holiday." Her report is only half-finished; to leave before it is finished is unacceptable. The woman takes the bait, but not the hint.
"Wh-at?" she drawls, popping her gum loudly. "Well, if you're sure." Still she lingers. She twists her graying hair with one manicured talon, peering over her tortoiseshell glasses. Her entire wardrobe is dated, but those glasses are from another century entirely. The folds of her mouth draw together, an accordion worn from being played nonstop for over sixty years. "But you will stay?"
"For a while. I want to finish up some things." Hazel eyes narrow, a vulture swooping low over its potential meal.
"Surely a young lady like you has holiday plans," she says, talons tapping against her puckered chin with a slow, deadly rhythm. The silences blossoms, develops, grows and fills up the empty spaces of the room effortlessly. "You don't plan on spending it here, do you?"
"As a matter of fact, I do not." Giving into the demand for information, she tells herself that it's only to make the old woman go away faster. "I'm traveling from London tomorrow."
"Oh!" Another silence, less poignant than the first. "Well, if you're traveling alone, I hope you plan on some safety measures!" It's well meant, she's sure, but that damn wheeze in her nose makes it sound jeering instead.
"I'm meeting someone." The words leave her mouth and hang over her desk before she realizes what she's done.
"Oh!" She fights the cringe from her face, trying to keep a neutral, even look that suggests no mischief. Of course, the news will have touched every floor in some way by tomorrow evening, even if no one is at work. The corporate email servers will have beaucoups of needless correspondence discussing her private life. She's used to being the subject of gossip among her employees, ever since the day she showed up and took over the position. Her favorite rumor is that she's some sort of corporate Mary Poppins, saving businesses from certain ruin before drifting away to some other Fortune 500 company that needs her. The most recent is that she's Mr. Cantabella's illegitimate daughter and the position is a gift from her 'benevolent uncle'.
"Yes." She types in footnote number eighteen, steadfastly refusing to look towards the presence at the door. "I'm going back to my hometown." At least they'll know now that she has a home to go to, and maybe despite the gossip this will help deter the men who strive to get closer to her. She hates turning them down time and time again with no explanation, especially since she has no indication that she's in a relationship. She's not even sure herself.
"Well, well, well…." A hum, a clang of bangles. "I'll leave you to it then. Have a safe trip, and I'll see you in June!"
"Thank you." It's a needless gesture; the clatter of Mrs. Mouthey's too-high heels is already a faint tattoo on the hall leading towards the lift. She sighs, rubbing her temples with her fingertips and adjusting her glasses. There's no guarantee that she'll be seen here in June. She'd thought that six months would have been more than enough time to make up her mind, but now that it's down to the final week she has no more idea of her future path than she did when she took her first step off the bus.
She looks around the bare office that she can't bare to make her own, not yet. The fragrance of the red flowers drifts over her as the central air kicks on. It's a heartbreaking, homesick scent that nearly choked her those first few months, but now it holds a promise. By this time tomorrow, she'll be where the fields are overflowing in abundance with their counterparts. She'll be home.
She pushes such thoughts from her mind, determined to focus on the here and now. The lights upstairs will automatically click off at seven on the dot, and it's already half past five. She has to get the report finished, because she doesn't know if she'll return and she hates to leave the work for someone else to come in to. It's easy if she just thinks about not thinking, her clumsy fingers stuttering over the keyboard as she continues to type.
There's a potential scenario that she outlines in the report, a scenario that could nearly double the net profit of the company. It's a risky venture, but she's sure that she can—no: she knows that she can pull it off if she tries. She all but says so as she polishes off the document and emails it to the proper authorities for review just as the clock strikes quarter 'till seven. They probably won't look at it until the following weekend, but never let it be said that CEO Darklaw missed a deadline.
Will I even be here to make this plan work? She sighs again, the thought alone giving her a headache. It's not that she doesn't know what she wants. She does, and therein lays the problem without a feasible solution.
She wants her job. She wants the business management meetings, the company letterheads, the reports and stress of managing a multimillion dollar establishment. She wants her title, wants to be able to decorate her office without the fear of having to take everything right back down, the ability to grow close to her coworkers without the nagging guilt of leaving them soon after becoming friends. She wants the challenges that come with the position, challenges rivaling those of her witch trial days and giving her a willing excuse to stretch her problem-solving muscles. She wants the knowledge, the broadening of horizons that comes only from learning about this modern ocean that, before this year, she's only dipped her toes into. This place, this life, is a niche that she's genuinely interested in, that she loves working with. She can see a happy life ahead of her if she stays.
But she also wants home. She longs for Labyrinthian cobblestones beneath her feet. She wants to wake up to the soft whisper of wind in the forest, the sharp calls of geese on the lake, the perfume of the Eldwitch flowers thick in the morning air. She wants to hear the bell tower pealing mournfully, yet beautifully at noontide. She wants the slower, clackity-clack bustle of horse-drawn carts, so distant from the mechanical rhythm of the metro. She wants the smell of a bakery to symbolize friends again, instead of simply bread. She wants its people, loud and quiet and nosy and distant and unique, each with their job to do. She wants the mundane day to day life, to be reminded that every new day can hold something small and exciting within itself. She wants to belong again.
She wants both, but can only choose one. She can't be a CEO from Labyrinthia, not with the company president already residing there. And she can't bring Labyrinthia to London, either. She's only got seven more days to make the decision that's been eating at her for months now, and the answer is still in the distance, clouded as the fog that hangs over the lake near her house. How can I possibly choose? She asks herself time and time again, though she knows that she must. No one can make this decision for her, and even if they could she knows that she could only be satisfied with her own judgment on the matter.
She locks up her office—perhaps for the last time—and waves to the nightshift security guards as she steps out into the darkened streets. The sun is nearly set, the purpled dusk cut by the streetlights that have already flickered to life. It's only a mile walk to her hotel, and she steps lightly in her hurry to get to her suite. The city is already coming alive with the nightlife, the business sector behind her darkened while before her the streets are crowded and a myriad of scents fill the air: cheap cologne, spirits, food vendors, cigarette smoke. She stops for a gyro at her favorite corner vendor, and she doesn't need to tell him how she likes it. He has it ready for her by the time she fishes the money from her handbag, handing it over as though the Greek dish was a bouquet. He winks and she turns away, hiding her smile.
Her suite is on the ninth floor, well situated away from the noise of the two restaurants housed in the hotel's atrium. When she closes the door, all sounds are cut off and she can pretend, almost, that she's alone in the middle of nowhere. The gyro is placed on the counter in the kitchenette, next to the unused coffeepot and oft-used microwave oven. She'll miss that microwave if she decides to stay; it's been a lifesaver when she was too tired to cook for herself.
The living area is separated from the bedroom area by a tiny expanse of carpet that manages to double as a hallway leading to the bathroom and closet. She places her handbag in the closet and undresses, letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders as she changes into her nightgown. The tiles are chilly on her bare feet and damp with the residue of mop water: they've cleaned, and recently. She doesn't care much for the cleaning; even as the Great Witch, she saw to her personal space's cleanliness on her own. The Shades weren't allowed in her home, even if they did work in her house. But they clean anyway, and to their credit her private belongings have remained untouched by any hands other than hers.
She eats the gyro in the kitchenette, standing at the counter and staring at the wall. Usually, she would be preparing to write her letters at this time; her Friday tradition since she first came to the hotel. Write them on Friday, send them on Saturday, and receive replies on Tuesday. Last Tuesday's replies are in the top drawer of the end table in the living area, and once she wipes her hands of the pita oil she sits on the sofa and looks at them. There are three this time, as Jean Greyerl saw fit to offer one last update on her house—she offered to help Espella look after it, and sent formal reports each month on the state of things. Unnecessary, to be sure, but she likes the thought of being kept in the loop. The language is short, precise, and something that she would expect more from one of the head scientists than a young girl employed as the town physician.
Espella's letter is as bright and bubbly as usual, written in a crooked, but neat script and flowing across the page as rushed as the girl herself. She always seems to write ninety miles a minute, as though there is never enough time to get down all her thoughts. Perhaps she just wants to make sure they're all written down before she forgets and moves onto something more. She reads over it again, feeling the younger woman's excitement and cheerfulness bleeding from the parchment. It's shorter than usual, but what's written is still warm and friendly.
Dearest Eve:
Are you ready to come home? I know that I can't wait to see you! It feels like it's only been a few days since I waved to you at the pier, but at the same time it feels like it's been ages! How can that be? I guess it's just because I'm busy, but I still get to hear from you every week. I know you won't write another letter, so even though you'll be home it will still be strange not waiting around for Lettie on Saturday.
It's warm here, warm enough that we have to have a picnic one day when you're home. And you remember that the May Festival is on Wednesday, so we'll get to spend the whole day outdoors! I hope it doesn't rain, but I think that I would still go out even if it was pouring. There's something peaceful about walking out in the rain, and I think doing it with a friend would make it even better. Of course, then we'd both catch cold and stay in bed the rest of the week! So I guess we can't. Sir Barnham would kill me if I let you get sick, because then he wouldn't get to he'd worry about you.
Think about us often, Eve! We think about you! I'll keep this letter short, so I can tell you everything on Saturday instead! Take care not to miss your bus!
Your friend,
Espella C.
She has dwelled all week on the five crossed out words, scribbled and scratched until they were nearly illegible. Then he wouldn't get to… to what? She wondered, not for the first time, what Espella had been about to say, and even more: why she changed her mind. Had… had she heard something and decided that it was confidential information, or had she decided that what she was about to say was just conjecture and stopped herself? Reading too far into things again, aren't you? That was one her faults, to be sure. Most likely, Espella had just found an easier way to state her sentence and had crossed out all the words she didn't need. But then why had she done it so forcefully?
She put Espella's letter aside and picked up the other, which had been resting on her lap. This letter was no shorter or longer than his other letters, but held no more clues than any of his other letters, either. She had read the scribbled lines over and over again all week, the scrawl splashing onto the page in uneven lines that slanted farther and farther to the right with every word. From the beginning line, cramped at the top as always:
Eve:
There was no 'Miss' attached, and she is glad of it. After all, she'd asked him to leave it off the last time they'd been together, hadn't she? But nothing more, nothing less, and not even a 'dear' thrown in for good measure. It was the contents of the letters themselves that always left her puzzling, and his last one was no different than the rest.
Eve:
Everyone is glad that you will be home soon. I believe that 'tis truly Mrs. Eclaire that worries most, because she cannot gauge how much you are eating. Do try to not come home any skinnier than you were when you left, otherwise you might have to eat all the merchandise we have readied in the bakery. I'll try to go slower with the bread-making closer to the week's end, just in case.
I Are
Our resident mischief-maker has been at it again. Constantine has managed to break two shelves in a fortnight and Mrs. Eclaire has threatened to send him packing back to the garrison stables. He was playing with the other Eve and slid on some water. I believe that Espella may have unknowingly spilled some that morning, as I could find no leaks in the roof. In any case, two legs on one shelf are broken and the other has a canine-sized dent in the corner. I plan on trying my hand at fixing them on Thursday, but I don't know if you know how I am with a hammer. I may instead beg a favor from the captain, who used to patch up the garrison from time to time.
Do I wish
I thought of you, the other day. I was making éclairs. I've grown better, and for three months past Mrs. Eclaire has let me be in charge of them. If Labyrinthia patrons notice a difference they say nothing, which is probably best! I think that I am steadily improving, but when you return I shall bake you one and let you judge for yourself. I promise that there will be no lumps this time.
I would like to congratulate you on the success of your unification of monetary values with the other company. . Of course, I always believed I knew that you were more than capable of, as the Stor Mr. Cantabella puts it, sealing the deal. Certainly, you have done a great deal for Labrellum since you left Labyrinthia. Its president sings your praises, after all, and he said just the other day that stock prices were higher than ever. He showed us the newsprint that had your picture on it. a ss
It was a good photograph. Espella laughed because the man could barely reach up enough to put his arm around your shoulder.
Thank you for your help in solving that puzzle I sent with the last letter. Rouge had me stumped for a week on it, but she was surprised when I came back and solved it easily on Wednesday. It took me a long time to draw it out on the paper correctly, because I didn't want her to know I was asking your advice on the matter. I had to memorize the way it looked and copy it in my room that evening. She keeps adding more daggers to the puzzle; I wonder what will happen when she runs out of bar space?
I hope you laughed at that. I think much of the joke falls flat when I transfer it onto paper. 'Tis a shame, but at least I will see I will see
I will see you laugh in person when you return.
I will be waiting for you on Saturday with the boat.
Zacharias Barnham
His letters are always about such mundane topics, but it is in the same manner that he used to chatter on about when they shared an office together. The language isn't flowery or sophisticated, but she can hear his voice in her mind as she reads over the words, imagining him groaning at the lack of a response to his written joke and laughing heartily over poor Constantine's plight.
Unlike Espella, his letters are always riddled with crossed out sentences, the ink blotted on the corners, the crumpled parchment sometimes water stained. But they are all just authentication factors to her—only he would think to send her a letter on such ruined paper. And like Espella, she has no clue why he crosses out what he does. She can see, in some places, where he simply chooses a different route in finishing off the sentence, such as when he talks about the former captain of the guard repairing Mrs. Eclaire's bakery shelves.
But the third paragraph from the end bewilders her. Not the 'unification of monetary values'; that is just Barnham speech for a business merger. But when he speaks of her picture in the newspaper he crosses out something thoroughly, even crosshatching it so that she can only make out a few letters. Compared to his other strikethroughs, this is a puzzle in and of itself. She can't even guess at what he means to say, as the rest of his paragraph only talks about the photo on an almost unrelated tangent.
She reads over the very last sentence again, squashed right above the squiggled scrawl that stands for his signature. I will be waiting for you on Saturday with the boat. It sounds like an oath, almost, the writing heavy as if the quill has bore down on the page while he writes the letters out. She imagines him standing before her, his fist clenched over his breastplate as he stares down at her on the sofa, a solemn expression on his face.
She folds the letter slowly, placing them both on the coffee table and lying on the sofa with her knees drawn up. His letters are secretly her favorite part of mail day, though she does enjoy Espella's as well. But there's something about them that remains aloof, set apart from her best friend's correspondence. It's emotion, she notes. There's a lack of emotion. That could be a letter to any friend, any distant acquaintance. That's not a letter to someone you confessed your feelings for just before they left for another city.
Granted, her own letters in return haven't been full of sweet nothings, but she's her and he's him. She's always been reserved with her emotions, she's had to be. The most unhinged he's ever seen her is when she cried on him the day of the final Witch Trial, after she tried unsuccessfully to word a proper apology. He, on the other hand, is vehement and emotional. She would have expected letters filled with—with what? He's not poetic; she doubts he could be, even if he tried his best. But perhaps an 'I miss you' would have been nice. Maybe he thinks it goes unsaid that he misses her. Maybe he doesn't miss her. Six months is a long time. Hadn't he been the one to say those exact words?
Rolling onto her back, she stares up at one outstretched hand. He'd also asked her to stay. Don't go. And he'd fought with himself for nearly two weeks in an effort to preserve her happiness, or what he thought was her happiness. Sure, it had almost caused her a very painful heartbreak, but even she could see that it had been done with good intentions. He'd been prepared to lose her, to sacrifice his own happiness so that she could live the life she wanted… he'd embraced her and promised to wait for her when she returned. Would he really go now and choose someone else, after doing all that for her? That wasn't his way. But then why did he not write with all the feeling she knew that he was capable of?
She pulls herself off the couch, gathering the letters from the table and wandering into the bedroom. She carries just her suitcase again, unable to pack the rest of her things when she knows she might be coming back to this suite. Mr. Cantabella has it rented indefinitely, and she's already made clear that no one is to clean until she returns—if she returns. She puts the letters with the others she's kept over the past months, carrying the love and support in them with her on the journey home. The only thing left is the two framed pictures she has on the nightstand, where she can look at them as frequently as need be. One is her birthday gift from Espella, the two happy girls smiling out of the frame. The other is the parting gift that he gave her, with their nearly matching outfits. These are her treasures, meager as they are.
She wraps them in her spare gown before placing them on top of the rest. Now, she only has to pack the things she will use tomorrow morning—her hairbrush, toothbrush, nightgown and reading glasses—before catching the first bus home. The suitcase is zipped securely and placed by the closet door, the handbag now wrapped around the handle so that she won't forget it.
She is dozing in the bed, the lamp the only source of light in the room, when her mobile chirps an incoming call. Reaching blindly for it, she brings it close and peers at the numbers splayed across the screen. It's a landline, one that she knows well.
"Hello?"
"Did I wake you?" Mr. Cantabella's voice is fuzzy with static. "I'm sorry to call so late."
"No, no. I'm fine." She struggles to sit up one-handed, finally jamming the phone in the crook of her neck as she straightens the twisted covers around her legs. "How are you?"
"A little tired, but otherwise well." His illness is under control thanks to the dedicated work of his company, but fatigue is one of the main side effects that remain. Even the medicine he takes daily makes him sleepy, but he takes it in stride. Better to be tired than dead. "And you? Are you all packed?"
"Mostly. I'm ready for tomorrow to hurry up and get here, if that's what you're asking." He laughs, and she can't help but smile at the sound. Despite wanting to ruin his life at one point, he's grown on her and she misses him.
"I think we all are." He laughs again. "Sir Barnham would have been waiting overnight at that bus station, had I not assured him that you were taking the first bus out of London and wouldn't arrive before midmorning. He's been on pins and needles since yesterday afternoon."
"I can't see why," she huffs, though she's secretly elated. "I'll be fine."
"I can." A rustle of cloth as the old man shifts. "He's been anxious to see you again." There's a knowing smile in his voice. "You should have seen the way he poured over that image of you in the London Times. Between him and Mrs. Patty Eclaire, I'm not sure which one of them is more concerned with your health."
"I'm fine. You should have let me talk him down on the phone if he was getting so up in arms." Really, she just wants to hear his voice, but that would have been a fine excuse.
"It would do little good, otherwise I might have considered the option. It's just how young men are," he explains. "He won't rest properly until you're back where he can watch over you."
"You make it sound as though I'm about to drop dead any moment!" she exclaims, shaking her head even though he can't see the motion. "How many times do I have to repeat it?"
"I know, I know. You're fine." He's shaking his head too, she can tell. "But he's not, until you're standing in front of him. And Mrs. Eclaire won't be until she can get three square meals into you in a row. She insists that the stress of such a job has made you thinner."
"It has not."
"Of course it hasn't. Caring about someone comes with its own set of negative rose-tinted lenses, I'm afraid. It's about fearing the worst when someone's abroad, because of your own helplessness. They won't be calm until you're back home, because that's where they can take care of you properly." She understands this, of course, because she worries about them all in her own small way. But to have it turned back on her is… not unsettling, but rather embarrassing. She doesn't want anyone to worry themselves over her.
"Well…." She struggles for the right words. "I'd hate for them to keep feeling that if I decide to come back."
"Still in the air about it?" he responds.
"Yes." She's abashed, but he sets her straight.
"It's understandable, Eve. That's a big decision. You can have more time to think on it, if you like." She wants to say yes, but wants and needs are two different things.
"No. If I keep doing that, I'll never decide. I'll give you a definitive answer by Saturday. I promise."
"I trust you. Make the choice based on your own feelings, Eve. Don't worry yourself over what everyone else with think or say. I will support you no matter if you choose to resign the position or stay in London."
"I know." She does know, and that makes it a little easier. "Thank you."
"Yes, well… I'll let you sleep now. You've got a long day ahead of you. Try to rest."
"Yes. Good-bye."
"Goodbye." A click, a dial tone. He's hung up. She lets the mobile turn itself off and lays back down, switching off the lamp and throwing the room into a darkness that blinds her. Sir Barnham would have been waiting overnight at that bus station… Was he really that eager to see her again? Or that concerned over her? Her heart thumps steadily behind her ribcage: Soft spot. Soft spot. Soft spot.
She chews her lip and considers this for the better part of an hour, but nothing more comes of it no matter how long the Storyteller's words repeat through her mind.
The journey is a long one. She has a window seat this time, and stares without seeing the English countryside as they wind their way slowly to the pier. She holds her handbag on her lap, the suitcase secure beneath her feet. She's thinking of home, of her house in the fields, of the bakery and its mistress, of the Storyteller and his daughter. Of her former Inquisitor.
She gets off the bus. He's sitting on the bench, having fallen asleep at the stop. She sits down next to him, 'accidentally' jolting him with her suitcase and murmuring a barely audible apology. He looks up to make amends for taking up so much space (he does sit so widely, with his legs sprawled all over the place) and sees who it is that has woken him. Laughing, he pulls her to him the same way he did six months ago, only this time without letting her go until they're both good and ready.
She gets off the bus. He's waiting for her near the pier entrance, and she doesn't think twice about running across the busy street without waiting for the signal. He holds out his arms and she jumps into them, suitcase skidding to a stop close by as he twirls her around and clutches her as if afraid she might disappear should he loosen his hold. Her face is pressed against his neck, breathing in the combination of scents that is his own.
She gets off the bus, but before she even begins, he's dodging cars and running just as recklessly across the street. He catches her before she can dismount the last step, pulling her out of the way of the other passengers as he holds her. Her feet are off the ground and she wraps her arms around his neck to compensate. He kisses her, a kiss she's seen recreated on the television, a kiss the other women at Labrellum speak of in the bathrooms as they fix their makeup and re-curl the ends of their hair. A kiss that makes up for every missed opportunity and all the months apart.
This is all pointless, of course, but it does help to pass the time. She knows how heavy a sleeper he is—a jolt with a light handbag won't rouse him, even if it was straight upside his head. If he managed to catch her at all, he'd most likely swing her around one too many times and give her a dizzy headache. And she could almost hear the sound of his body slamming against the side of the bus, if a car didn't knock him into the next life first. But the kiss… despite everything, she wants the kiss.
The bus rumbles along, growing more and more crowded with each stop. Most are people headed out for the holiday, though a few businessmen crowd together near the back. At a rest stop, she stretches her legs and looks at her mobile while some of the others wander around and smoke. While she's got signal now, she knows there will be none in Labyrinthia and turns off the phone to conserve battery. She plans to use her old office to check up on any emails she might get through the break.
When they all load, the driver checks the doors and then turns the key, only to hear a loud crunch of metal and a squealing that forces them all to cover their ears. Smoke billows from the flat hood of the bus and the driver hurriedly turns the key again.
"Stay put, you lot," he grunts, waddling down the stairs. "I'll be right back." No one stays put, children jumping up into their parents' seats, men and women leaning around to talk to their friends.
"Will we be stranded?"
"Mummy, aren't we going to the beach?"
"Does this mean we can buy another ice cream, Da?"
"I better call Mum; she'll be worried that we're running late."
She thinks of calling Mr. Cantabella, but there's no way of knowing if he'll be at his desk landline. He may not get a message until she's already arrived and after all, it may be a quick fix. She hopes beyond hopes that it's a quick fix. The bus is hot, jam-packed as it is with bodies, and the sweat is pooling on the small of her back. She prays to her lucky stars that she doesn't smell as sweaty as she feels, that the expensive perfume she received as a Christmas present from the company potluck works the way it should.
"Bad news." The driver is back, mopping at his pasty forehead. "We've blew the radiator. They're sending a new bus for you all, but it'll be a bit. Better had on back out now, 'n take your things with you." A chorus of groans is drowned by a flurry of movement as everyone reaches over and around everyone else for their belongings. They troop dutifully off the smoking bus and disperse as far as they dare go, still within sight distance of the felled vehicle but away enough that they have relative privacy.
She chooses an empty stone bench beneath an oak and waits, allowing herself to fall back into fantasies that will never come true.
It's more than a bit; it's hours. Noon passes, and she has to buy herself a modest lunch from a vending machine. A few passengers complain loudly to the driver, who loudly protests back that he can only do so much, the bus is on its way, be patient or get lost. She continues to wait, the shade a godsend. At least they hadn't had to stay on that bus in this heat.
When they're safe on 'Rescue Bus #919', she allows herself to wonder if anyone at the pier was told what had happened. Had they relayed the radiator failure? If they had, great. If they hadn't, there was nothing she could do. She doesn't know the number to the pier office, and there is still no way of knowing if the Storyteller was near to the phone or not. A useless call would be wasted minutes, which she pays for as needed. Old fashioned, compared to some of the newer, niftier phones, but it suits her well enough. As they move farther south, clouds begin to build and she wonders if it will rain, if it's already raining at home.
Soon enough, the pier is the next stop on the route and her stomach begins to churn. She's nervous, and excited, and worried all at the same time. What if he went home without her, thinking that she'd missed the bus? What if she was stranded there overnight? What would she do? What if he was angry that he had to wait so long? What would he say to her? What would she say to him? The corners of her handbag are squeezed to near oblivion as she hunkers in the seat. Her seatmate, a youth with more holes in his ears than Swiss cheese, stares askance at her before shifting nearer to the aisle.
She nearly misses the stop when the bus slows, she's so caught up in her hopes and fears. She stands abruptly, barely keeping herself from knocking the boy on his pimpled face as she wiggles out into the aisle and hoists her suitcase above everyone's heads. The driver nods at her as she waits for the three other people getting off here to dismount before her. She gulps, but nods in return and throws back her shoulders as she takes the three steep steps from bus to sidewalk.
The pier is unchanged, save for a few loose signs that have been nailed properly back. The bus station has added a new news rack, filled up with tabloids; "Years Later: Another Gourdy Sighting?" flashes at her in garish yellow letters over a blurred photograph. She tears her eyes away from it, knowing that the only reason she looked at all was to keep from seeing what was there, who was there. Or, consequently, who wasn't. The pier isn't busy, and at first glance she sees no one she knows of. Not even Constantine. It's foggy and as she stands, a mist begins to fall; not enough to do more than barely wet the skin and make the air muggier.
There's a frightening moment where her throat clogs with fear and she grips the suitcase until her knuckles are white; what will I do? Even thinking about such a scenario on the bus, she didn't actually believe it would happen. She digs in her handbag for her phone, no longer caring about the wasted minutes. She has to get in touch with the Storyteller, to find out what's going on.
A hand taps politely on her shoulder and she spins, an apology already on her lips as she realizes that she's blocking a good bit of the bench by standing directly in front of it. It dies on her tongue because here he is, standing behind her dressed as inconspicuously as any of the people talking beneath overhangs or jogging through the misty drizzle with their hoods drawn over their head. The mobile drops back into her bag as she looks him over, staring at the low-slung jeans, the tight gray shirt, the black cloth jacket and the white trainers. He looks like a Londoner out in the park, and she wonders where he found such clothing.
His eyes light up as he realizes she's the one he's looking for, and for a moment they just size each other up as if meeting for the first time all over again. Then he pushes her gently beneath the bus stop's tin roof, getting them both out of the rain and dragging her suitcase along with his foot.
"Eve," he says breathlessly, eyes sparkling with emotion as he stares, unashamed. It's his voice that convinces her that he's really here, he's not left already, that he's waited for her and found her. Without thinking she presses herself against him, cheek resting against the scratchy material of his shirt. His heart hammers beneath her ear, as energetic as ever. She smiles as he doesn't push her away, but rests his hands lightly on her back and touches his chin to the top of her head. It's the same way he'd comforted her once, but now she's not crying and he's not stiff, trying to pat the sadness out of her by force.
"Zacharias," she mumbles into his chest, breathing in the Labyrinthian cologne and faint bread smell, made stronger by the damp air around them. His arms tighten almost imperceptibly, but then his hands are on her shoulders and he's leaning her back, looking her over with a more studious eye on her clothing.
"You look… well," he finishes lamely, and despite the reserved motions of his body his eyes continue to shine at her. They dip to her mouth and back; she recognizes the look and leans back in, determined to have her kiss at least. Three fingers press against her lips and she muffles a startled gasp, the feel of them odd but not unwelcome against her mouth. "N-not now," he mutters, his little half-smile that she used to hate—hates for a minute again—twisting his face.
"O-oh." She feels the heat of embarrassment and prepares to turn away; it'll only be worse if he sees her reddened face, because now she's completely unsure and any questions from him will be her undoing. Did I read it wrong? I had to have. He normally wouldn't give a care where—is there someone else after all? Could Mr. Cantabella have been wrong? I don't—
"Eve." Her face is vermillion, her mouth wobbling as the shyness she's bottled up over six months nearly overwhelms her. "Eve." He draws her back in, ignoring how her hands are balled up at her chest. "Not now, because—" He pauses, looks around, bends closer and closer until he's whispering in her ear. "Look, when I start to kiss you, I'm not going to want to stop. If you don't mind, I'd like to save it until we get somewhere private." Another, slighter pause. "I've been trying to hold myself back, but 'tis nearly impossible."
"Z-Zach—"She stumbles over the first syllable, the only one able to make it past her lips as comprehension floods her and her entire body is filled with the prickling heat that was confined to her face just moments before. His hands tighten painfully on her shoulders as he backs away; their eyes meet and the same worn tension from before, familiar as ever and yet new each time, fills the space between them. His eyes flash and for a moment she wonders if he will kiss her anyway, and if she'll stop him should he try to. But then he's cool and collected, one arm sliding down to capture her hand as he easily picks up her suitcase and hoists it over his shoulder.
"C'mon, let's get you home," he says cheerfully, keeping a tight grip on her hand as he leads her through the crowds and down onto the rickety boards of the pier. He's had to park farther out this time, and as they walk she catches up and loops her arm through his, taking a fistful of his jacket sleeve. He obligingly slows his pace and they take on more of a leisurely stroll as the crowds thin. She sees the speedboat, a familiar white shape guarding the back seat. As they come up to the side and he tosses her suitcase into the back, she's observed and Constantine hesitates before growling, something akin to recognition in his eye.
"Mutt," she greets him playfully, and it's as if a switch has been flipped by her voice. His entire rear end wiggles, tail flapping blindly as he bark and barks, jumping in the seat.
"Calm down, boy," Barnham warns as the boat begins to rock. He steps in first, turning to offer his hand to her. she takes it and finds herself in the passenger seat between blinks. Constantine licks at her hair and cheek before he gets another command. "Sit!" The dog's hind end hits the cushion and he's still as a statue, transferring his focus from the woman to her suitcase. It'll be the most guarded suitcase in England, she knows, but she frowns at the thought of white hairs covering its black surface.
Looking over at him, she's not surprised that he refuses to catch her eye while turning on the boat and leaving the pier. She turns to watch it grow smaller, wondering if she'll be back in a week. There's a thump as Constantine's tail begins again, and she smiles at him before turning back to his owner. Waiting until they're out at sea, she hesitantly tests the waters and puts her hand on the edge of his thigh, too far away to be considered anything intimate. Almost immediately his hand claps over her own, holding it there forcefully as he takes a deep breath. The boat gives a jolt as the gas is pressed down too forcefully, then another as he overcompensates with the brake.
"M—Eve," he manages to choke, the raspy edge catching her off-guard. "Please, I've got to get you home. We're already late as it is." His fingers squeeze hers tightly before removing them and placing them back on her own leg. "L-later," he mutters, almost to himself, before putting both hands back on the wheel and settling down in the seat until his shoulders are nearly touching his ears.
She sits back in the seat, a smile on her face and her hand tingling on her lap as she looks out for the first signs of an island, her island, surrounded by an enormous wall.
Afterword: I plan on having nine chapters, one for each day of the week plus prologue and epilogue. See you next time! (finger guns)