Scarlett lost count of the days upon her return to London. She wasn't due back at the university for another month, though she did have several emails from the dean requesting an abstract of the research she had collected in Paris posthaste. Scarlett deleted them.
George stuck around for a week or so, determined to make whatever they had rekindled in the catacombs work, but they felt the familiar tension settle between them once more like a taut cord. Scarlett woke up to a note on her pillow saying he'd returned to the States. He gave no indication whether he was coming back, and left no forwarding address. Scarlett thought she should be surprised or disappointed, but she wasn't. She only felt numb.
More than anything, George's departure spurred Scarlett to open her father's journal for the first time since emerging from hell. Though the book was caked in blood and grime, bits of which cracked and flaked off when she opened it, the wraparound leather cover was of good quality, and the inside had been reasonably well-insulated from the elements, protecting the cramped notes from two different hands.
Scarlett moved through London in a fog, scarcely eating and only occasionally remembering to bathe. When she stripped off her clothes to shower, she could see her ribs through the tightly stretched skin. Her cheeks hollowed, and perpetual dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. When she looked at her own face in the mirror, she only saw the skulls that had been stacked upon each other like macabre rows of bricks in the Catacombs.
And when she slept, she dreamed, of blood and fire and the faces of the damned.
August in London was usually pleasantly warm, but these days Scarlett was always cold. She drew her jacket around her more tightly to keep the drizzle off and checked the damp card in her hand again for the address.
The office was on the second floor, and as Scarlett entered a tiny bell tinkled above the door. The receptionist looked up expectantly.
"May I help you?"
The receptionist was a pretty young thing, with dark hair and eyes set against a flawless olive complexion. She seemed entirely too eager to please. Scarlett's eyes dropped to the nameplate pinned to her breast. Vanessa. Her name was like the whisper of naked skin against cream silk sheets.
"I've got an appointment with Dr. Thompson at two o'clock," Scarlett said, swallowing to dispel the image.
"Of course," Vanessa said, her manicured fingernails clicking against the computer keys. "Dr. Thompson will be right with you."
Scarlett waited to rise until the mahogany door opened. A short middle-aged man in a green jacket brushed past her, rubbing the dark smudges under his eyes with his thumb. He leant upon a cane like it was the only thing holding him up and bore the waifish look of one who had lost a great deal of weight in a short time. Scarlett saw the same haunted look in his eyes that she faced in the mirror everyday—whoever this man was, his demons had not been kind to him. She heard his uneven gait as he trudged down the stairs.
"Miss Marlowe?" Dr. Thompson was waiting at the door. "It's time."
Scarlett shuffled past the psychiatrist into her spacious office. The hardwood floors soaked up the grey light from the paneled windows and sliding door. The building was adjacent to a park, and Scarlett sat across from the silent doctor and watched the tree branches sag under the weight of the rain.
"You mentioned on the phone that you had experienced a trauma, Miss Marlowe," said Dr. Thompson.
Scarlett nodded.
"Would you like to tell me about it?"
Scarlett bit her lip. "I—I don't know what to say," she said.
"If you'd like, we can start from the beginning. Wherever that may be for you."
Scarlett exhaled slowly. "Alright."
Their sessions progressed slowly, as Scarlett shared small pieces of the puzzle—the burning car, George's meltdown when he thought he glimpsed his dead brother, the overwhelming smell of blood as La Taupe had bashed Souxie's head into the ground again and again and again and again—Scarlett threw up into Dr. Thompson's trash can and they ended early that day. She emerged into the lobby, blinking at the sudden sunlight. Dr. Thompson had kept the curtains drawn in her office.
The middle-aged man whose session always preceded Scarlett's was fidgeting in one of the lounge chairs, and he used his cane to push himself to his feet as she drew near.
"John," Dr. Thompson said, surprised. "I thought you canceled for today."
"What? Oh yes," he said. "Yes, I did." There was a long pause. "Sorry. I—what's your name?" he asked Scarlett.
"Me?"
John nodded.
"Scarlett," she said. "Scarlett Marlowe."
"I'm John Watson." He stopped expectantly, as if she should recognize the name, but she didn't.
"Sorry, do I know you?"
"No, no," John said. "Er . . . can I buy you a cup of tea?"
"Tea?" Scarlett said, frowning.
"Or a coffee, if you'd prefer."
"Tea," Scarlett repeated.
"John," Dr. Thompson said warningly.
"Yes?" He looked nonplussed, though there was a slight rigidness in his limbs as he waited. Finally he sighed. "You told me to reach out to people."
"You know what I meant."
John shrugged and turned back to Scarlett. "Shall we, then?"
Scarlett looked back to Dr. Thompson, as though asking permission. The psychiatrist shook her head in disbelief and disapproval. "You're both adults, so I can't stop you. Just be careful."
John smiled triumphantly.
If he had meant her harm, surely Dr. Thompson would have put a stop to it. That she hadn't was the main reason Scarlett found herself here, with a hand wrapped round a ceramic cup in a cafe just down the block from the psychiatrist's office.
"So, er, are you from London then?" John asked.
"Yes," Scarlett said, wrapping her arms around herself as if to protect herself from his questions.
"Sorry, I don't mean to pry. I just thought, you seem like you could use someone to talk to. God knows I could."
This one was a rambler, clearly, but he seemed mostly harmless for all that. "I was born and raised in London," she said cautiously. "My father had a professorship at University College. I spent much of my childhood elsewhere, though, on digs with him, after my mother died."
"Digs?"
"Archaeological expeditions," Scarlett clarified. "That's my field as well; urban archaeology. I recently led an expedition in Paris, in fact." Scarlett hadn't meant to tell him that, but once she'd opened her mouth the words just seemed to just tumble out.
"Urban archaeology," John repeated, furrowing his brow and leaning in. "I didn't know there was much in the way of artifacts in cities. At least, not the kind that archaeologists might be interested in."
"Oh, yes," Scarlett said. She lit up in spite of herself. "There's so much history to be found in cities if you know where to look."
John gave her a small, indulgent smile. "Oh? And in London, where would I look?"
"The old parts," she said. "Where people live on top of the ashes of yesteryear's civilizations. For example, St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Founded 1123—" She fell silent as the blood drained from John's face.
"Sorry," she said, but she wasn't sure why.
"It's fine," John said, and that was that. He cleared his throat. "So, an archaeologist. Been to the Middle East, then?"
"Many times," Scarlett said. "Most recently, Turkey and Iran."
"Not quite like the Mummy, I imagine."
"No, usually it's much more mundane," she said. She couldn't bring herself to laugh. "Not always. Hence, Dr. Thompson." Scarlett cleared her throat. "You've been to the Middle East yourself?"
"How did you know?"
"Military bearing, seeing a therapist on the regular—sorry, I just assumed."
"You're not wrong," John said. "But the therapy—it's not about Afghanistan."
"I didn't mean to bring that up. A bit personal; we've only just met."
John shrugged. "We've got that in common. I—lost someone close to me."
"So did I," Scarlett said. "Strange, isn't it, how death unites us all. Yet it's shameful to talk about; no one ever wants to talk about it! Ancient cultures celebrated the dead: the Egyptians, the Incas, the Hindus. They held festivals lasting weeks to honor the deceased. Now death makes everyone so uncomfortable. Why should we who grieve hide away like lepers? Why?" She shrank back, alarmed at her own vehemence.
John's mustache twitched with dark amusement.
"Go on then, what's the joke?"
"Nothing, really," John said. "It's only, I thought there was only one person in this world who could get so passionate over death." His smile faded. "Or perhaps two."
Scarlett sipped her tea, letting him have a moment to himself. She leaned in. "Do you—do you suppose I could meet one of them?"
John blanched.
"I didn't mean anything by it," Scarlett said quickly. "Only I think it might help."
"No, no, sorry, of course I'll introduce you," John said. "Next week, this time? I'll meet you outside Dr. Thompson's office." His phone buzzed—a text. John checked it quickly and made a face. "I have to go."
"Alright," Scarlett said. She finished her tea, alone. But she felt far less lonely than she had in weeks.