On the Tuesday before Christmas, which is on a Saturday this year, I call Matthew and ask him if he would like to meet again, even though we just spoke two days ago. He asks if I'd like to visit his home. I decline—what would his parents think about a stranger showing up out of nowhere?—but he says they're an hour away at a hockey game. It'll be fine if I come over.

I agree and tell him I'll be there in twenty minutes.

I purposely leave my phone on the kitchen table. I don't care about Francis' calls anymore, and if I don't answer my phone, Antonio will just assume I'm on the Spirit Trail. I grab my messenger bag and leave for the United States.

Matthew lives in a nice apartment near the heart of Philadelphia. He gives me the address, and when he opens the door for me, a huge Australian Sheepdog with ice blue eyes runs up to me, tail wagging.

"Hero!" Matthew calls. "Hi, Gilbert. Sorry. Alfred's—err, our dog is very friendly. Come in. How are you?"

I pat Hero's head. "Good, I think. So you got back from Quebec safe and sound, huh?"

"Guess so." Matthew leads me to a living room and we sit down. He still seems to be handling Alfred's death relatively well, and I'm relieved. As he shifts to move a pillow out of his way, the sleeve of his shirt rises up his arm, and I notice a pale, ghastly scar running the length of his wrist.

"Matthew—"

He looks at me with his strange-colored eyes, and I still can't place who they remind me of. "What?"

"Did you cut yourself?" I don't know why this bothers me so much. I've been around plenty of suicidal people—hello, who do you think I am?—but the thought of a depressed Matthew makes me so uncomfortable that I have to struggle to remain calm.

"I did." He laughs again. "But not in the way you think! When I was nine, I watched this spy movie with Alfred, and as a joke, he told me the government planted a tracker in my wrist. I took a steak knife and tried cutting it out. Of course, nothing was there, but Amelia walked into the kitchen and about died when she saw all the blood everywhere. I had to go to the hospital, but at least I got an interesting story out of it." He smiles slightly, and I can tell that for some strange reason, this is a fond memory for him. Maybe because Alfred was in it. The joy is in remembering the person, not the pain.

"Hey," Matthew prompts. "What are your favorite things?"

"My what?" I ask, snapping out of my thoughts.

He laughs pleasantly. "How shall we become friends if we don't know anything about each other?"

"You want to be friends with me?" I demand. "But someday... I mean, not to trouble you, but someday you're going to die—"

Matthew raises an eyebrow. "So just enjoy what's here and what's now. Favorite things?"

"Favorite things?" I repeat. "God, okay. Let me think. Don't laugh?"

"Why would I laugh?"

"Um, um, I like dogs. I like... ugh, this is difficult." No one has ever asked me what I like. I've only ever had Francis and Antonio, who already know everything about me.

"You're German, aren't you?"

I shake my head. "Nope. I'm Prussian. Even if that isn't around anymore, I'll always be Prussian. Okay, I'm not technically from any country, but if you asked me to pick my favorite, that'd be it. That's why I like the German language, I guess."

"What language do you speak in your head?" Matthew asks.

"Any? All? I can speak every language. I've always been able to. And whenever a new language comes around, I can speak that, too. But German's my favorite."

Matthew looks amazed. "And I thought being fluent in two languages was annoying. You're on a whole different level, aren't you?"

"Oh? What other language are you fluent in?"

"French, of course."

We have the rest of the conversation in French. Even though it reminds of Francis, I do it to make Matthew happy. I learn that his birthday is July 1st—hey, Canada Day—and he's already sent in applications for a few American colleges, most of them around Philadelphia. He wants to move back to Canada when he's older, though.

He tells me more about his family. Apparently, Amelia is a very nice person, and he's never known anything different. Alfred's grandparents love him like he's their own grandchild. He still has his grandmother on his dad's side—the one who lives in Quebec—but his grandfather on his dad's side was the one who got gunned down. The one I hand-killed. He knows nothing at all about his biological mother.

"So," he says, "you never had to go to school, did you?"

"School?" I shake my head. "Nope."

"Well, I envy and pity you at the same time."

I snort. "Why on earth would I want to go to school? I've already seen all the things the world has to offer. I was around when they discovered the stuff you learn about."

Matthew shrugs. "I don't know. Don't take this the wrong way, please, but you seem... I don't know. You seem like a kind of lonely person. At least at school, you can make friends, you know what I mean?"

I sigh. Friends? I've never really had friends, except for Antonio. And I don't think that counts.

"Well," I counter, "it's pretty awesome being me, too."

"How so?" Matthew takes a sip of the hot chocolate he's made for both of us and smiles.

"I mean, have you ever seen the sun rise over the Eiffel Tower? Or caught snowflakes on your tongue in front of the Kremlin? Or messed with the police in New York City with absolutely no fear of being caught? Yes, there is a lot of sadness in my life—the sadness of other people. But it's a pretty fun experience, too."

Matthew laughs. "I like you, Gilbert. You remind me of Alfred."

He is saying this in a normal tone, the way you would say it to your best friend. I know that's all we are. Friends.

I smile back. "Thanks. I like you, too."

"You're in a good mood today, huh?" Antonio asks, raising his coffee cup to his mouth and blowing steam across the top.

"Hmm?" I set down my own coffee and watch tiny snowflakes drift down from the gray sky. "Oh, I hadn't noticed."

Antonio and I are sitting on a city bench in New York City, taking a break from our lives and enjoying the cheery holiday decorations set up everywhere. We're in human form, so I can feel the bitter cold of the snow, but it makes things feel more realistic.

"Where were you yesterday?" Antonio has a gleam in his emerald eyes.

"Wh—oh. I was in Philadelphia."

"Listen, Gilbert. I know you and Francis have been mad with each other since Jeanne's death, so I've only been able to spend time with both of you one-on-one. Which is fine. But I'm just wondering... um..." Antonio stutters, seemingly embarrassed.

I watch a couple with intertwined hands walk past us, laughing and smiling. "Spit it out, Toni."

"Yes, um, are you in love with someone?"

"What?! No! Definitely not! What the hell gave you that idea?!"

Antonio laughs. "Nothing, nothing, Starry. Don't worry."

I lean back against the bench, sighing. "You're crazy."

Antonio knows something has happened. Maybe he doesn't know that Francis shot me, but he knows something changed.

But nothing has to change. It's not too late.

Even if the arrows work on immortals, I swear I'll never fall in love.