Chapter 3
"Nothing!" Harry blurted out quickly as the grip on his shoulder tightened. Uncle Vernon frowned at him suspiciously. "I was just giving Hedwig some exercise," Harry said thinking quickly. "She was in the cage all the way here… I thought now might be best because no one can see her at night." He stopped, watching Vernon's face closely for any sign of disbelief.
Vernon scowled at him. Owls were unnatural animals to have as pets but the boy did have a point… "As soon as your… pet comes back, put it in the cage and make sure it stays in there or I'll have it plucked and stuffed!" He turned back to the house, grumbling to himself as Harry's anger dissipated in relief. He didn't know what he might have done if Vernon had stayed to wait for Hedwig to come back.
Harry stayed out about ten more minutes to make sure Uncle Vernon was back in bed and silently crept back towards the house that was not his home.
* * *
Christopher halted on the landing between the second and third floors, breathing heavily and trying not to sway on his feet as nausea turned his already pallid skin an unhealthy shade of grey. Up ahead, Maggie heard him stop and turned to see him grasping the banister in a white-knuckled grip. She quickly descended and gently extracted the carrier bag slipping from his grasp. He did not object this time.
Finally, though dots of perspiration shone on his forehead, Christopher managed the last two flights with a single-minded intensity that surprised the older couple watching him. Michael unlocked the door and Maggie motioned him towards a well-padded chair. Christopher declined to take it, remaining on his feet. Despite the gurgling of his stomach, he surveyed what would be his temporary residence.
Large windows on the far opposite wall shed the afternoon's waning light on a baby grand piano, gleaming black and well polished, as was a cello resting in its stand beside it. A silver music stand stood to the side, white sheaves of notation-lined paper sitting silently and waiting to be read. The floor dropped down a small step to the main part of the room taken up mostly by a sofa, old but comfortable and the big padded chair that Maggie had originally offered to Christopher. The floor was wooden but had multi-coloured carpets strewn here and there to dispel the coldness of the floor to bare feet. On the walls hung a few paintings and more oddly disturbing pictures of, assumingly, family and friends. Dark wooden bookshelves filled with books lined the rest of the free space on the wall.
The room opened up into what looked like a modest dining area and kitchen on one side and on the other, a narrow hallway presumably leading towards the bedrooms. Michael turned to face Christopher as he completed his visual circuit of the room. "Would you like to wash and shave before tea?"
"Yes," Christopher replied, turning from his inspection of the bookshelves. Michael nodded and led the way. "Towels are here in the airing-cupboard, shampoo is there, soap is right here… and…" Michael rummaged around in a cabinet eventually emerging with a razor, much like the one he had been offered at the hospital. "Here's a razor you can use and my shaving foam is right here." Christopher frowned at the two items he had no memory of using but nodded and thanked his host.
He had already showered that morning at the hospital but this time he decided to attempt shaving, memory or no memory.
Christopher looked askance at what Michael had called a "razor" and "shaving foam," hesitantly picking up the can. He glanced at the door but pride prevented his asking Michael for help. A gruelling twenty minutes later, Christopher managed to get the black stubble off after reading the directions and looking at the pictures on the can of shaving foam, but not without a few stinging cuts.
He scowled at his face in the mirror, still disturbed by the unfamiliar image. His face was lined and seemed to have a perpetual sour expression, even when he wasn't feeling particularly irritated. His eyes were black and haunted with secret knowledge that he couldn't even guess. Reaching up with his free hand, he touched the corner of his mouth, wondering what past heartaches and failures had embedded themselves in his skin...
His hand. Christopher looked at the long-fingered appendage, noting a few calluses and some old abrasions as if from acid on the otherwise pale, smooth skin. Pale skin… Christopher examined the skin on his legs and upper arms, finding it all the same pale colour. He obviously didn't get out much or he worked in a place that didn't have windows.
A small, flowering plant sitting on the sink was giving off an odd smell. He glanced at it and like someone lighting a candle in a dark room, it's name came to him from the black void in his mind: Feverfew, Tanacetum parthenium. Also known as Midsummer Daisy, Featherfew, Featherfoil or Flirtwort. Not native to Britain… Useful for hysterical complaints, nervousness, depression, and for lowering fever. A decoction with honey is good for coughing and difficult breathing… Christopher blinked in surprise. Where had that information come from? He looked at the burn-like abrasions on his hands again… Perhaps he was a chemist or some kind of pharmacist or even a botanist . . . that would explain the extensive knowledge of a single herb and the scars.
He clenched his fist and slowly lifted his eyes to the mirror, meeting the face there without flinching. "I will remember!" he vowed in a hiss.
* * *
"Michael," asked Maggie slowly, looking up from the washing machine in the kitchen where Michael was preparing the meal. "Do you know what I should do with his… whatever it is?" She held up the dark, narrow stick that had been grasped in Christopher's hand when they found him in a dark grimy alley in London, unconscious and injured. Her first instinct was to simply throw the apparently useless thing away but as it had been in the bag with his belongings, namely the voluminous black robes now in the washing machine, she didn't think their guest would appreciate that much. Michael shrugged and suggested that she just put it in the guest room where Christopher would be sleeping. Maggie acquiesced and had just got back when Christopher emerged from the hallway, his clean-shaven chin emphasizing the narrowness of his face.
The three of them ate contentedly at the small table in the kitchen. Maggie tried occasionally to open up dialogue with their guest but he seemed lost in thought and barely responded except with short monosyllabic answers. After a while she gave up.
The meal continued in silence until Christopher suddenly spoke up after Maggie served him a bit of bread and butter pudding. "The feverfew in the lavatory is young so the small potting container it is in now will be adequate but the plant often grows to three feet. I suggest finding a larger area, perhaps a garden where it will thrive better." The comment was quiet and so matter-of-fact that Michael paused in the middle of pouring more tea for himself. He recovered just in time not to overflow the cup and looked quickly at his wife. Maggie had a comical mixture of surprise and confusion written on her face.
"Really?" she managed, trying to act normally. "I didn't even know what it was called. It was a gift from a neighbour. How did you know that?" she asked casually.
Christopher attacked his bread and butter pudding with a vengeance. "I don't know," he growled in self-loathing, hating the weakness that prevented him from knowing the basics of his own life. Technically, he knew that it wasn't his fault that his memory was gone, but if he had been attacked in the street, as Staff Nurse Dawson had told him, shouldn't he have been able to defend himself adequately enough not to fall and hit his head hard enough to blank out at the very least twenty-five years of his life?
"Nothing!" Harry blurted out quickly as the grip on his shoulder tightened. Uncle Vernon frowned at him suspiciously. "I was just giving Hedwig some exercise," Harry said thinking quickly. "She was in the cage all the way here… I thought now might be best because no one can see her at night." He stopped, watching Vernon's face closely for any sign of disbelief.
Vernon scowled at him. Owls were unnatural animals to have as pets but the boy did have a point… "As soon as your… pet comes back, put it in the cage and make sure it stays in there or I'll have it plucked and stuffed!" He turned back to the house, grumbling to himself as Harry's anger dissipated in relief. He didn't know what he might have done if Vernon had stayed to wait for Hedwig to come back.
Harry stayed out about ten more minutes to make sure Uncle Vernon was back in bed and silently crept back towards the house that was not his home.
Christopher halted on the landing between the second and third floors, breathing heavily and trying not to sway on his feet as nausea turned his already pallid skin an unhealthy shade of grey. Up ahead, Maggie heard him stop and turned to see him grasping the banister in a white-knuckled grip. She quickly descended and gently extracted the carrier bag slipping from his grasp. He did not object this time.
Finally, though dots of perspiration shone on his forehead, Christopher managed the last two flights with a single-minded intensity that surprised the older couple watching him. Michael unlocked the door and Maggie motioned him towards a well-padded chair. Christopher declined to take it, remaining on his feet. Despite the gurgling of his stomach, he surveyed what would be his temporary residence.
Large windows on the far opposite wall shed the afternoon's waning light on a baby grand piano, gleaming black and well polished, as was a cello resting in its stand beside it. A silver music stand stood to the side, white sheaves of notation-lined paper sitting silently and waiting to be read. The floor dropped down a small step to the main part of the room taken up mostly by a sofa, old but comfortable and the big padded chair that Maggie had originally offered to Christopher. The floor was wooden but had multi-coloured carpets strewn here and there to dispel the coldness of the floor to bare feet. On the walls hung a few paintings and more oddly disturbing pictures of, assumingly, family and friends. Dark wooden bookshelves filled with books lined the rest of the free space on the wall.
The room opened up into what looked like a modest dining area and kitchen on one side and on the other, a narrow hallway presumably leading towards the bedrooms. Michael turned to face Christopher as he completed his visual circuit of the room. "Would you like to wash and shave before tea?"
"Yes," Christopher replied, turning from his inspection of the bookshelves. Michael nodded and led the way. "Towels are here in the airing-cupboard, shampoo is there, soap is right here… and…" Michael rummaged around in a cabinet eventually emerging with a razor, much like the one he had been offered at the hospital. "Here's a razor you can use and my shaving foam is right here." Christopher frowned at the two items he had no memory of using but nodded and thanked his host.
He had already showered that morning at the hospital but this time he decided to attempt shaving, memory or no memory.
Christopher looked askance at what Michael had called a "razor" and "shaving foam," hesitantly picking up the can. He glanced at the door but pride prevented his asking Michael for help. A gruelling twenty minutes later, Christopher managed to get the black stubble off after reading the directions and looking at the pictures on the can of shaving foam, but not without a few stinging cuts.
He scowled at his face in the mirror, still disturbed by the unfamiliar image. His face was lined and seemed to have a perpetual sour expression, even when he wasn't feeling particularly irritated. His eyes were black and haunted with secret knowledge that he couldn't even guess. Reaching up with his free hand, he touched the corner of his mouth, wondering what past heartaches and failures had embedded themselves in his skin...
His hand. Christopher looked at the long-fingered appendage, noting a few calluses and some old abrasions as if from acid on the otherwise pale, smooth skin. Pale skin… Christopher examined the skin on his legs and upper arms, finding it all the same pale colour. He obviously didn't get out much or he worked in a place that didn't have windows.
A small, flowering plant sitting on the sink was giving off an odd smell. He glanced at it and like someone lighting a candle in a dark room, it's name came to him from the black void in his mind: Feverfew, Tanacetum parthenium. Also known as Midsummer Daisy, Featherfew, Featherfoil or Flirtwort. Not native to Britain… Useful for hysterical complaints, nervousness, depression, and for lowering fever. A decoction with honey is good for coughing and difficult breathing… Christopher blinked in surprise. Where had that information come from? He looked at the burn-like abrasions on his hands again… Perhaps he was a chemist or some kind of pharmacist or even a botanist . . . that would explain the extensive knowledge of a single herb and the scars.
He clenched his fist and slowly lifted his eyes to the mirror, meeting the face there without flinching. "I will remember!" he vowed in a hiss.
"Michael," asked Maggie slowly, looking up from the washing machine in the kitchen where Michael was preparing the meal. "Do you know what I should do with his… whatever it is?" She held up the dark, narrow stick that had been grasped in Christopher's hand when they found him in a dark grimy alley in London, unconscious and injured. Her first instinct was to simply throw the apparently useless thing away but as it had been in the bag with his belongings, namely the voluminous black robes now in the washing machine, she didn't think their guest would appreciate that much. Michael shrugged and suggested that she just put it in the guest room where Christopher would be sleeping. Maggie acquiesced and had just got back when Christopher emerged from the hallway, his clean-shaven chin emphasizing the narrowness of his face.
The three of them ate contentedly at the small table in the kitchen. Maggie tried occasionally to open up dialogue with their guest but he seemed lost in thought and barely responded except with short monosyllabic answers. After a while she gave up.
The meal continued in silence until Christopher suddenly spoke up after Maggie served him a bit of bread and butter pudding. "The feverfew in the lavatory is young so the small potting container it is in now will be adequate but the plant often grows to three feet. I suggest finding a larger area, perhaps a garden where it will thrive better." The comment was quiet and so matter-of-fact that Michael paused in the middle of pouring more tea for himself. He recovered just in time not to overflow the cup and looked quickly at his wife. Maggie had a comical mixture of surprise and confusion written on her face.
"Really?" she managed, trying to act normally. "I didn't even know what it was called. It was a gift from a neighbour. How did you know that?" she asked casually.
Christopher attacked his bread and butter pudding with a vengeance. "I don't know," he growled in self-loathing, hating the weakness that prevented him from knowing the basics of his own life. Technically, he knew that it wasn't his fault that his memory was gone, but if he had been attacked in the street, as Staff Nurse Dawson had told him, shouldn't he have been able to defend himself adequately enough not to fall and hit his head hard enough to blank out at the very least twenty-five years of his life?