I stopped three shadows over, picked up the lost wallet that was there because I expected it to be, dug out all the bills and dumped the empty leather into a mailbox. At a little boutique a couple blocks down the road, I bought clothes appropriate to the shadow and packed my current outfit into a newly-purchased black shoulder bag. The boy behind the counter blinked at me, then shook his head, a casual exorcism of an old ghost. I told him to keep the change. "Are you sure?" he asked my retreating back.
I stepped into the coffee shop in a world where the sky was appropriately blue and ordered a cappuccino. When the boy passed it to me I tried to smile. Experimentally -- "Do you remember me?"
"I -- sorry, ma'am," he said. I watched my own eyes hurting.
"It's all right." I debated, lied, of course. "I'm a relative of your mother's."
Flinch. "You look like her."
Technically, she looked like me. I didn't feel like explaining. "How have you been, Owen?"
"Good. I'm doing good."
The girl at the cash register called, "Grande latte, extra foam!"
"Sorry--" he said, turning away, relief flickering over his features.
Outside again, I paced, sighed, and walked the streets into blackness.
It's easier for my brothers, I suppose. God knows when Caine was drunk he used to talk like he had a son for every shadow. Corwin's got at least one, maybe more; Benedict doesn't know I know about his granddaughter. But of us girls -- Fiona's never mentioned anyone, not that she would; Llewella stays in Rebma mostly, settled down but celibate; Flora flirts and lives alone. And I -- yeah, well, here I am.
This time the coffee shop was a little less lit, a little more tired. When I entered, he glanced up, went pale, finished the drink he was making, and disappeared into the back. A few moments later, he was replaced by a skinny tan girl with a blindingly white smile. I left.
I considered walking away, letting this go, but in the end, I guess I needed... closure, or something. With a few steps, I let the key of the birdsong change and knew I'd arrived.
I leaned against a telephone and thought about going in. Thought about having a smoke first, and dug accordingly in my purse for a cigarette.
There was a quiet zip. I lit up with the proffered flame, blew out smoke, contemplative, met my son's eyes. Silence.
"You should see Dad," he said finally.
"I should," I said, non-committal, hiding behind the words.
"But you're not going to," he said.
Of course I'm not. His father is a poet and an artist who used to draw me so well I barely recognized myself. Green eyes that I pretend don't remind me of anyone. He probably cried when I left. "Maybe," I lied.
He nodded. "Nice to see you," he said, sounding like "goodbye."
I thought about asking him if he'd ever noticed anything different about himself, that he was stronger, faster, realer. Thought about giving cryptic hints at the shadows I'd talked to, practice rounds everything and nothing like the real thing. Thought about telling him about Amber, about my family, about the wonders just around the corner if you knew how to walk.
"You too," I smiled; "see you later," I lied. I walked out, and through, and home.
